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' She was whipped, sir, /or wanting to live a decent Christian lije, such as your laws 
give no slave girl a right to live." 

See page 87. 











Business Transactions between a Slave-holder and a Slave-dealer — Uncle Tom sold 
to Haley — Little Harry and his Quadroon Mother — The Slave-dealer's Offer — 
The Mother's Alarm — A Slave-dealer boasting of his Humanity — A kind 
Mistress appealed to by the alarmed Mother . . ... 9 


George Harris, the Quadroon's Husband — A Labour-saving Machine — Tyrannical 
Ingenuity exercised . . . . . . . i8 


A Husband, Wife, and Child all Bond-slaves — The Reasonings of a Free-spirited 
Man — George's Recital of Vindictive Rage — Determines to be Free or Die ! — 
His Farewell . . , . . ... 20 


An Evening in Uncle Tom's Cabin — Aunt Chloe and her Cookery — Uncle Tom at 
Home Learning to Write — Mas'r George Shelby, Mose, and Pete at Supper — 
Aunt Chloe exposes a Rival's Pretensions — A peart Young 'Un — A Negro 
Prayer Meeting — A Wicked Bargain . . . . . 24 


Pecuniary Embarrassments — How Living Property feel on Changing Owners — The 
Reflections and Remonstrances of a Humane Mistress — Lame Excuses — The 
Mother's Anguish, and Determination to Fly with Her Child — A Dog's Affection 
— Alas ! Poor Tom ! , . . . ... 32 


The Flight Discovered — Haley Determines to Pursue the Fugitive — Andy and 
Sam's kind Trickeries — Horses can't be "cotch'd in a minnit" — The Faculty 
"o' bobservation " . . . . • • • 37 


The Mother's Struggle — A kind Hostess — A Dinner kindly delayed — Uncle Tom's 
Gratitude — Andy and Sam at their Tricks again — The Pursuit after the Fugitive 
Mother and Child — Eliza's Desperate Escape Across the River — An Honest 
Kentuckian — Haley's Disappointment and Rage . . , . 44 


Haley gets Reinforcements — A Recital of Troubles — Marks and Loker, the Slave- 
hunters, boasting their Cleverness — Frightful Narrations over the " blow out " — 
The Pursuit determined upon, and the Dogs prepared — Sam's Report of Eliza's 
Escape to " Hio " — Sam's " collusitation " of the Great Principles of Action . 53 



The Senator's House — Senator Bird made Ashamed of his Vote — Missis Summoned 
to the Kitchen — The Fugitive Mother and Child — The Senator's Determination 
to Help them — An Ohio Railroad — The Fugitives conveyed in safety to Van 
Trompe's Farm . . . . ... 63 


Uncle Tom's Farewell — A Comforter — Tom in Shackles — Handcuffs — Blacksmith's 
Shop — Mas'r George's Sympathy — "Be quiet, Nigger !" . . . 74 


A Kentucky Hotel — An Assembly of the Free and Easy — Niggers Advertised — 
George is Disguised — Discussion on Slavery — Harrowing Recitals — Benevolent 
Feeling . . . . . ... 81 


Select Incident in Lawful Trade — Sale of Human Beings by Auction — Hagar and 
her Child — Heart-rending Separations — A Word for Humanity — Desperation 
and Death . , . . . ... 90 


A Quaker Settlement — The Fugitives Sheltered — ^An Indiana Breakfast — Friends' 
Colloquy . . . . . « , . 102 


Evangeline — Tom and his Bible — Comforts — A Child Snatched from a Watery 
Grave — Tom is Sold again . - . ^ ... 108 


Tom's new Master, St. Clare— Miss Ophelia — Order— St. Clare's Dwelling— Mr. 
Adolph's Accomplishments — Marie St. Clare . . . . . 115 


Tom's Mistress and her Opinions — Have Slaves got Souls? — Nothing Like 
Flogging — What is Religion ? — Tom decorated by Eva — The Bible speaks, and 
Tom explains . . . . . ... 126 


The Free Man's Defence — The Fugitives Pursued — Phineas Fletcher — A Desperate 
Encounter — Good for Evil — The Fugitives once more safe . . .139 


Tom promoted — Old Dinah, the Head Cook — Miss Ophelia's Interference in the 
Kitchen — Tom Advocating Temperance and Religion . . . .151 


Drunkenness and Death — Opinion on Slavery — Illustrative Narratives— Effects of 
Kind Treatment — Tom and Eva trying to Write a Letter . . .162 


Black Topsy— Not " Born," but " Raised"— A Hopeful Pupil— The Lash, or Kind- 
ness? — " I 's so wicked ! " . .' . . . . 175 



Uncle Tom's Old Cabin — Aunt Chloe's resolve to Buy her Husband — Hires 
herself out . . . . . . , . iS6 


Master George's Letter — Tom and Eva's Friendship — Eva's Meditations on Another 
World — Her Alarming Illness . . . . . . 189 

Pride and Passion — Poor Dodo — Discussion on Slavery . • • . 194 


Foreshadowings — Deceitful Symptoms — Bible Teachings — Plea for the Slaves — 
Thoughts of Heaven . . . . ... 199 

Topsy's " Wicked Heart " — Eva takes her in Hand , ... 204 

Eva's Dying Gifts—" She is Dying ! "— " Farewell ! Beloved Child ! " . . 207 

Topsy's Lament — Tom Preaches to St. Clare, and Prays for Him . . . 216 


St. Clare becomes serious — Freedom Promised to Tom — Topsy made Free — " Dies 
IrcE — Good Resolves — St. Clare is assassinated — Earnest Prayer — "Motker!" — 
He dies . . . . . ... 221 


St. Clare's Funeral — The Unprotected Slaves — Female Cruelty — A Whipping 

Establishment — Vain Remonstrances . . . . . 231 


The Slave Warehouse — Slaves Prepared for Sale — Susan and Emmeline — The 
Mother's Advice — Slaves sold off . . . ... 236 


The Middle Passage — Tom's New Master, Legree — Brute Force — Robbery and 
Defiance — Emmeline and the Mulatto Woman . ... 243 


Legree's Plantation — Emmeline in Danger — Tom and his Bible again . . 248 


Cassy in the Field — Tom's Kindness — The Driver's Cruelty — Tom reftises to be 
cruel, claims Another's Right in his Soul, and suffers fearfially . , . 253 

The Quadroon's Sympathy — Her Sad Story . . • . . 25S 


Legree conscience-stricken — A Woman's Feelings — The Love Token — A Drunken 
Revel . . , . . . ... 266 



Emmeline and Cassy — Legree's Drunkenness and Terror — Interview with poor Tom 
— " Eternity ! " . . . . . ... 270 


Tom Loker — George and his Wife and Child on Free Ground . . . 274 


Uncle Tom obtains True Liberty — Cassy's Revengeful Plans Defeated . . 279 


Female Stratagem — Legree more and more alarmed — Ghosts — ^An Escape Planned 
— ^A Slave Hunt — The Hunters Foiled . . ... 285 


Legree's Disappointment and Rage — Emmeline and Cassy — Tom's Firmness and 
Martyrdom . . . . . ... 292 


Visit from George Shelby to poor Tom — Kindness too late — Tom Free for Ever — 
George Punishes Legree . . . . ... 297 


Authentic Ghost Story — Legree drinks brandy in vain — Cassy and Emmeline escape 
— Marvellous Revelations . . . . ... 301 


Results of the whole — George and Eliza at Home ^Improvement in Cassy's 
Character — Strange Reunions — George's Plans — Topsy's Rapid Improvement . 30& 


The Widow Chloe — " My heart 's broke — dat 's all ! " — George Shelby Liberates his 
Slaves — " The Year of Jubilee is come ! " . . . . . 311 

Concluding Remarks — Illustrations and Appeal , , ■ • . 314 


The scenes of this story, as its title indicates, lie among a race hitherto 
ignored by the associations of polite and refined society ; an exotic race, 
whose ancestors, born beneath a tropic sun, brought with them, and per- 
petuated to their descendants, a character so essentially unlike the hard 
and dominant Anglo-Saxon race, as for many years to have won from it 
only misunderstanding and contempt. 

But another and better day is dawning; every influence of literature, 
of poetry, and of art in our times is becoming more and more in unison 
with the great master-chord of Christianity, "Good-will to man." The 
poet, the painter, and the artist now seek out and embellish the common 
and gentler humanities of life, and, under the allurements of fiction, 
breathe a humanizing and subduing influence, favourable to the develop- 
ment of the great principles of Christian brotherhood. The hand of 
benevolence is everywhere stretched out, searching into abuses, righting 
wrongs, alleviating distresses, and bringing to the knowledge and sympathies 
of the world, the lowly, the oppressed, and the forgotten. 

In this general movement, unhappy Africa at last is remembered — Africa, 
who began the race of civilization and human progress in the dim grey 
dawn of early time, but who for centuries has lain bound and bleeding at 
the foot of civilized and Christianized humanity, imploring compassion in 
vain. But the heart of the dominant race, who have been her conquerors, 
her hard masters, has at length been turned towards her in mercy ; and it 
has been seen how far nobler it is in nations to protect the feeble than to 
oppress them. Thanks be to God, the world has at last outlived the 
slave trade ! 

The object of these sketches is to awaken sympathy and feeling for the 
African race, as they exist among us ; to show their wrongs and scrrows 
under a system so necessarily cruel and unjust, as to defeat and do away 
the good effects of all that can be attempted for them by their best friends 
under it. 

In doing this the author can sincerely disclaim any invidious feeling 
towards those individuals who, often without any fault of their own, are 
involved in the trials and embarrassments of the legal relations of slavery. . 


Experience has shown her that some of the noblest minds and hearts 
are often thus involved, and no one knows better than they do, that what 
may be gathered of the evils of slavery from sketches like these is not half 
that could be told of the unspeakable whole. 

In the Northern States these representations may, perhaps, be thought 
caricatures ; in the Southern States are witnesses who know their fidelity. 
What personal knowledge the author has had of the truth of incidents, 
such as are here related, will appear in its time. 

It is a comfort to hope, as so many of the world's sorrows and wrongs 
have, from age to age, been lived down, so a time shall come when 
sketches similar to these shall be valuable only as memorials of what has 
long ceased to be. 

When an enlightened and Christianized community shall have on the 
shores of Africa laws, language, and literature drawn from among us, may 
then the scenes of the house of bondage be to them like the remembrance 
of Egypt to the Israelites — a motive of thankfulness to Him who hath 
redeemed them ! 

For, while politicians contend, and men are swerved this way and that 
by conflicting tides of interest and passion, the great cause of human 
liberty is in the hands of One of whom it is said : 

" He shall not fail nor be discouraged 
Till He have set judgment in the earth." 

" He shall deliver the needy when he crieth, 
The poor, and him that hath no helper." 

" He shall redeem their souls from deceit and violence, 
And precious shall their blood be in His sight." 



IN which: the reader is introduced to a man of humanity. 

Late in the afternoon of a chilly day in February, two gentlemen were 
sitting alone over their wine, in a well-furnished dining -parlour, in the 

town of P , in Kentucky. There were no servants present, and the 

gentlemen, with chairs closely approaching, seemed to be discussing some 
subject with great earnestness. 

For convenience' sake, we have said, hitherto, two gentkfnen. One of 
the parties, however, when critically examined, did not seem, strictly 
speaking, to come under the species. He was a short, thick-set man, with 
coarse, commonplace features, and that swaggering air of pretension which 
marks a low man who is trying to elbow his way upward in the world. He 
was much over-dressed, in a gaudy vest of many colours, a blue necker- 
chief, bedropped gaily with yellow spots, and arranged with a flaunting 
tie, quite in keeping with the general air of the man. His hands, large 
and coarse, were plentifully bedecked with rings ; and he wore a heavy gold 
watch-chain, with a bundle of seals of portentous size, and a great variety 
of colours, attached to it, which, in the ardour of conversation, he was in 
the habit of flourishing and jingling with evident satisfaction. His con- 
versation was in free and easy defiance of Murray's Grammar, and was 
garnished at convenient intervals with various profane expressions, which 
not even the desire to be graphic in our account shall induce us to trans- 

His companion, Mr. Shelby, had the appearance of a gentleman ; and 
the arrangements of the house, and the general air of the housekeeping, 
indicated easy and even opulent circumstances. As we before stated, the 
two were in the midst of an earnest conversation. 

" That is the way I should arrange the matter," said Mr. Shelby. 

" I can't make trade that way — I positively can't, Mr. Shelby," said the 
other, holding up a glass of wine between his eye and the light. 

" Why, the fact is, Haley, Tom is an uncommon fellow ; he is certainly '' 
worth that sum anywhere — steady, honest, capable, manages my whole 
farm like a clock." 

"You mean honest, as niggers go," said Haley, helping himself to a 
glass of brandy. 

" No, I mean really, Tom is a good, steady, sensible, pious fellow. He 
got religion at a camp-meeting four years ago; and I believe he really 


did get it. I Ve trusted him, since then, with everything I have — money, 
house, horses — and let him come and go round the country ; and I always 
found him true and square in everything." 

"Some folks don't believe there is pious niggers, Shelby," said Haley, 
with a candid flourish of his hand; "but I do. I had a fellow, now, in 
this yer last lot I took to Orleans — 't was as good as a meetin' now, really, 
to hear that critter pray, and he was quite gentle and quiet Uke. He 
fetched me a good sum, too; for I bought him cheap of a man that 
was 'bliged to sell out ; so I realised six hundred on him. Yes, I consider 
religion a valeyable thing in a nigger, when it's the genuine article, and 
no mistake." 

"Well, Tom's got the real article, if ever a fellow had," rejoined the 
other. "Why, last fall, I let him go to Cincinnati alone, to do business 
for me, and bring home five hundred dollars. ' Tom,' says I to him, ' I 
trust you, because I think you're a Christian — I know you wouldn't cheat.' 
Tom comes back sure enough — I knew he would. Some low fellows, 
they say, said to him : * Tom, why don't you make tracks for Canada ? ' 
' Ah, master trusted me, and I couldn't ! ' They told me about it. I 
am sorry to part with Tom, I must say. You ought to let him cover the 
whole balance of the debt ; and you would, Haley, if you had any con- 

"Well, I've got just as much conscience as any man in business can 
afford to keep — -just a little, you know, to swear by, as 't were," said the 
trader, jocularly ; " and then I 'm ready to do anything in reason, to 'blige 
friends ; but this yer, you see, is a leetle too hard on a fellow — a leetle 
too hard." 

The trader sighed contemplatively, and poured out some more brandy, 

"Well, then, Haley, how will you trade?" said Mr. Shelby, after an 
uneasy interval of silence. 

" Well, haven't you a boy or gal that you could throw in with Tom ? " 

" Hum ! — none that I could well spare ; to tell the truth, it 's only 
hard necessity makes me willing to sell at all. I don't like parting with 
any of my hands, that 's a fact." 

Here the door opened, and a small quadroon boy, between four and 
five years of age, entered the room. There was something in his appear- 
ance remarkably beautiful and engaging. His black hair, fine as floss 
silk, hung in glossy curls about his round, dimpled face, while a pair 
of large dark eyes, full of fire and softness, looked out from beneath the 
rich long lashes, as he peered curiously into the apartment. A gay robe 
of scarlet and yellow plaid, carefully made and neatly fitted, set off to 
advantage the dark and rich style of his beauty ; and a certain comic air 
of assurance, blended with bashfulness, showed that he had been not 
unused to being petted and noticed by his master. 

" HuUoa, Jim Crow ! " said Mr. Shelby, whistling, and snapping a bunch 
of raisins towards him, " pick that up, now ! " 

The child scampered with all his httle strength after the prize, while 
his master laughed. 

" Come here, Jim Crow," said he. 

The child came up, and the master patted the curly head, and chucked 
him under the chin. 

" Now, Jim, show this gentleman how you can dance and sing." 

The boy commenced one of those wild, grotesque songs common 
among the negroes, in a rich, clear voice, accompanying his singing with 


many comic evolutions of the hands, feet, and whole body, all in perfect 
time to the music. 

" Bravo ! " said Haley, throwing him a quarter of an orange. 

" Now, Jim, walk like old Uncle Cudjoe when he has the rheumatism," 
said his master. 

Instantly the flexible limbs of the child assumed the appearance of 
deformity and distortion, as, with his back humped up, and his master's 
stick in his hand, he hobbled about the room, his childish face drawn 
into a doleful pucker, and spitting from right to left, in imitation of an 
old man. 

Both gentlemen laughed uproariously. 

" Now, Jim," said his master, " show us how old Elder Robbins leads 
the psalm." 

The boy drew his chubby face down to a formidable length, and 
commenced toning a psalm-tune through his nose with imperturbable 

" Hurrah ! bravo ! what a young 'un ! " said Haley ; " that chap 's a 
case, I '11 promise. Tell you what," said he, suddenly clapping his hand 
on Mr. Shelby's shoulder, " fling in that chap, and I '11 settle the business 
— I will. Come, now, if that ain't doing the thing up about the rightest !" 

At this moment the door was pushed gently open, and a young 
quadroon woman, apparently about twenty-five, entered the room. 

There needed only a glance from the child to her, to identify her as its 
mother. There was the same rich, full, dark eye, with its long lashes; 
the same ripples of silky black hair. The brown of her complexion gave 
way on the cheek to a perceptible flush, which deepened as she saw the 
gaze of the strange man fixed upon her in bold and undisguised 
admiration. Her dress was of the neatest possible fit, and set off" to 
advantage her finely-moulded shape. A delicately-formed hand, and a 
trim foot and ankle, were items of appearance that did not escape the 
quick eye of the trader, well used to run up at a glance the points of a 
fine female article. 

" Well, Eliza ? " said her master, as she stopped and looked hesitatingly 
at him. 

" I was looking for Harry, please, sir " ; and the boy bounded toward 
her, showing his spoils, which he had gathered in the skirt of his robe. 

"Well, take him away, then," said Mr. Shelby; and hastily she with- 
drew, carrying the child on her arm. 

" By Jupiter ! " said the trader, turning to him in admiration, " there 's 
an article, now ! You might make your fortune on that ar gal in Orleans, 
any day. I 've seen over a thousand, in my day, paid down for gals not a 
bit handsomer." 

" I don't want to make my fortune on her," said Mr. Shelby drily ; and, 
seeking to turn the conversation, he uncorked a bottle of fresh wine, and 
asked his companion's opinion of it. 

" Capital, sir — first chop ! " said the trader ; then turning, and slapping 
his hand famiUarly on Shelby's shoulder, he added : " Come, how will 
you trade about the gal ? what shall I say for her ? what will you take ? " 

" Mr. Haley, she is not to be sold," said Shelby ; " my wife would not 
part with her for her weight in gold." 

"Ay, ay, women always say such things, 'cause they ha'n't no sort of 
calculation. Just show 'em how many watches, feathers, and trinkets 
one's weight in gold would buy, and that alters the case, / reckon." 


" I tell you, Haley, this must not be spoken of. I say no, and I mean 
no," said Shelby decidedly. 

"Well, you'll let me have the boy, though?" said the trader; "you 
must own I Ve come down pretty handsomely for him." 

" What on earth can you want with the child ? " said Shelby. 

"Why, I've got a friend that's going into this yer branch of the 
business — wants to buy up handsome boys to raise for the market. 
Fancy articles entirely — sell for waiters, and so on, to rich 'uns, that can 
pay for handsome 'uns. It sets off one of yer great places — a real 
handsome boy to open door, wait, and tend. They fetch a good sum ; 
and this little devil is such a comical, musical concern, he's just the 

"I would rather not sell him," said Mr. Shelby thoughtfully; "the 
fact is, sir, I'm a humane man, and I hate to take the boy from his 
mother, sir." 

" Oh, you do ? La, yes, something of that ar' natur'. I understand, 
perfectly. It is mighty onpleasant getting on with women sometimes. I 
al'ays hates these yer screechin', screamin' times. They are mighty 
onpleasant ; but, as I manages business, I generally avoids 'em, sir. 
Now, what if you get the girl off for a day, or a week, or so ; then the 
thing 's done quietly — all over before she comes home. Your wife might 
get her some earrings, or a new gown, or some such truck, to make up 
with her." 

" I 'm afraid not." 

" Lor', bless ye, yes ! These critters an't like white folks, you know ; 
they gets over things, only manage right. Now, they say," said Haley, 
assuming a candid and confidential air, " that this kind o' trade is 
hardening to the feelings ; but I never found it so. Fact is, I never could 
do things up the way some fellers manage the business. I 've seen 'em 
as would pull a woman's child out of her arms, and set him up to sell, 
and she screechin' like mad all the time — very bad policy — damages the 
article — makes 'em quite unfit for service sometimes. I knew a real 
handsome gal once, in Orleans, as was entirely ruined by this sort o' 
handling. The fellow that was tradin' for her didn't want her baby ; and 
she was one of your real high sort, when her blood was up. I tell you, 
she squeezed up her child in her arms, and talked, and went on real 
awful. It kinder makes my blood run cold to think on 't ; and when 
they carried off the child, and locked her up, she jest went ravin' mad, 
and died in a week. Clear waste, sir, of a thousand dollars, just for want 
of management — there 's where 't is. It 's always best to do the humane 
thing, sir ; that 's been my experience." 

And the trader leaned back in his chair, and folded his arms, with 
an air of virtuous decision, apparently considering himself a second 

The subject appeared to interest the gentleman deeply ; for while Mr. 
Shelby was thoughtfully peeling an orange, Haley broke out afresh, with 
becoming diffidence, but as if actually driven by the force of truth to say 
a few words more. 

"It don't look well, now, for a feller to be praisin' himself; but I say 
it jest because it 's the truth. I believe I 'm reckoned to bring in about 
the finest droves of niggers that is brought in — at least, I 've been told so , 
if I have once, I reckon I have a hundred times — all in good case — fat 
and likely, and I lose as few as any man in the business. And I lays it 


all to my management, sir; and humanity, sir, I may say, is the great 
pillar of my management." 

Mr. Shelby did not know what to say, and so he said, " Indeed ! " 

" Now, I 've been laughed at for my notions, sir, and I Ve been talked 
to. They an't pop'lar, and they an't common ; but I stuck to 'em, sir ; 
I 've stuck to 'em, and realised well on 'em ; yes, sir, they have paid their 
passage, I may say " ; and the trader laughed at his joke. 

There was something so piquant and original in these elucidations of 
humanity, that Mr. Shelby could not help laughing in company. Perhaps 
you laugh too, dear reader; but you know humanity comes out in a variety 
of strange forms nowadays, and there is no end to the odd things that 
humane people will say and do. 

Mr. Shelby's laugh encouraged the trader to proceed. 

"It's strange, now, but I never could beat this into people's heads. 
Now, there was Tom Loker, my old partner, down in Natchez ; he was a 
clever fellow, Tom was, only the very devil with niggers — on principle 
't was, you see, for a better hearted fellow never broke bread ; 't was his 
system, sir. I used to talk to Tom. 'Why, Tom,' I used to say, 'when 
your gals takes on and cry, what's the use o' crackin' on 'em over the 
head, and knockin' on 'em round? It's ridiculous,' says I, 'and don't 
do no sort o' good. Why, I don't see no harm in their cryin',' says I; 
' it is natur',' says I, ' and if natur' can't blow off one way, it will another. 
Besides, Tom,' says I, ' it jest spiles your gals ; they get sickly, and down 
in the mouth ; and sometimes they gets ugly — particular yallow girls do, 
and it's the devil and all gettin' on 'em broke in. Now,' says I, 'why 
can't you kinder coax 'em up, and speak 'em fair? Depend on it, Tom, 
a little humanity, thrown in along, goes a heap further than all your jawin' 
and crackin' : and it pays better,' says I, ' depend on 't.' But Tom 
couldn't get the hang on 't ; and he spiled so many for me, that I had to 
break off with him, though he was a good hearted fellow, and as fair a 
business hand as is goin'." 

" And do you find your ways of managing do the business better than 
Tom's?" said Mr. Shelby. 

"Why, yes, sir, I may so. You see, when I anyways can, I takes a 
leetle care about the onpleasan' parts, like selling young 'uns and that — 
get the gals out of the way — out of sight out of mind, you know; and 
when it 's clean done, and can't be helped, they naturally gets used to it. 
'Tan't, you know, as if it was white folks, that's brought up in the way 
of 'specting to keep their children and wives, and all that. Niggers, you 
know, that's fetched up properly, ha'n't no kind of 'spectations of no 
kind ; so all these things comes easier." 

" I 'm afraid mine are not properly brought up, then," said Mr. Shelby. 

"S'pose not; you Kentucky folks spile your niggers. You mean well 
by 'em, but 'tan't no real kindness, arter all. Now, a nigger, you see, 
what 's got to be hacked and tumbled round the world, and sold to Tom, 
and Dick, and the Lord knows who, 'tan't no kindness to be gi\dn' on 
him notions and expectations, and bringin' on him up too well, for the 
rough and tumble comes all the harder on him arter. Now, I venture to 
say, your niggers would be quite chopfallen in a place where some of 
your plantation niggers would be singing and whooping like all possessed. 
Every man, you know, Mr. Shelby, naturally thinks well of his own ways ; 
and I think I treat niggers just about as well as it 's ever worth while to 
treat 'em." 


"It's a happy thing to be satisfied," said Mr. Shelby, with a slight 
shrug, and some perceptible feelings of a disagreeable nature. 

" Well," said Haley, after they had both silently picked their nuts for a 
season, " what do you say ? " 

" I '11 think the matter over, and talk with my wife," said Mr. Shelby. 
"Meantime, Haley, if you want the matter carried on in the quiet way 
you speak of, you 'd best not let your business in this neighbourhood be 
known. It will get out among my boys, and it will not be a particularly 
quiet business getting away any of my fellows, if they know it, I '11 promise 

" Oh, certainly, by all means ; mum, of course. But I '11 tell you, I 'm 
in a devil of a hurry, and shall want to know, as soon as possible, what I 
may depend on," said he, rising and putting on his overcoat. 

" Well, call up this evening, between six and seven, and you shall have 
my answer," said Mr. Shelby, and the trader bowed himself out of the 

" I 'd like to have been able to kick the fellow down the steps," said he 
to himself, as he saw the door fairly closed, "with his impudent assurance; 
but he knows how much he has me at advantage. If anybody had ever 
said to me that I should sell Tom down south to one of those rascally 
traders, I should have said, ' Is thy servant a dog that he should do this 
thing ? ' And now it must come, for aught I see. And Eliza's child, too I 
I know that I shall have some fuss with wife about that ; and, for that 
matter, about Tom, too. So much for being in debt — heigho ! The 
fellow sees his advantage, and means to push it." 

Perhaps the mildest form of the system of slavery is to be seen in the 
State of Kentucky. The general prevalence of agricultural pursuits of a 
quiet and gradual nature, not requiring those periodic seasons of hurry 
and pressure that are called for in the business of more southern districts, 
makes the task of the negro a more healthful and reasonable one ; while 
the master, content with a more gradual style of acquisition, has not those 
temptations to hard - heartedness, which always overcome frail human 
nature when the prospect of sudden and rapid gain is weighed in the 
balance, with no heavier counterpoise than the interests of the helpless 
and unprotected. 

Whoever visits some estates there, and witnesses the good-humoured 
indulgence of some masters and mistresses, and the affectionate loyalty 
of some slaves, might be tempted to dream the oft-fabled poetic legend 
of a patriarchal institution, and all that; but over and above the scene 
there broods a portentous shadow — the shadow of law. So long as the 
law considers all these human beings, with beating hearts and living 
affections, only as so many things belonging to a master — so long as the 
failure, or misfortune, or imprudence, or death of the kindest owner, may 
cause them any day to exchange a life of kind protection and indulgence 
for one of hopeless misery and toil — so long it is impossible to make any- 
thing beautiful or desirable in the best regulated administration of slavery. 

Mr. Shelby was a fair average kind of man, good-natured and kindly, 
and disposed to easy indulgence of those around him, and there had 
never been a lack of anything which might contribute to the physical 
comfort of the negroes on his estate. He had, however, speculated 
largely and quite loosely — had involved himself deeply, and his notes to 
a large amount had come into the hands of Haley ; and this small piece 
of information is the key to the preceding conversation. 


Now, it had so happened that, in approaching the door, EUza had caught 
enough of the conversation to know that a trader was making offers to her 
master for somebody. 

She would gladly have stopped at the door to listen, as she came out ; 
but her mistress just then calling, she was obliged to hasten away. Still she 
thought she heard the trader make an offer for her boy ; could she be mis- 
taken? Her heart swelled and throbbed, and she involuntarily strained 
him so tight that the little fellow looked up into her face in astonishment. 

" Eliza, girl, what ails you to-day ? " said her mistress, when Eliza had 
upset the wash pitcher, knocked down the work-stand, and finally was 
abstractedly offering her mistress a long night-gown in place of the silk 
dress she had ordered her to bring from the wardrobe. 

EHza started. " O missis ! " she said, raising her eyes ; then bursting 
into tears, she sat down in a chair and began sobbing. 

" Why, Eliza, child ! what ails you ? " said her mistress. 

" O missis, missis ! " said Eliza, " there 's been a trader talking with 
master in the parlour ! I heard him." 

" Well, silly child, suppose there has ! " 

" O missis ! do you suppose mas'r would sell my Harry ? " and the poor 
creature threw herself into a chair and sobbed convulsively. 

" Sell him ! No, you foolish girl ! You know your master never deals 
with those southern traders, and never means to sell any of his servants, 
as long as they behave well. Why, you silly child, who do you think 
would want to buy your Harry? Do you think all the world are set 
on him as you are, you goosie? Come, cheer up, and hook my dress. 
There, now, put my back hair up in that pretty braid you learnt the other 
day, and don't go listening at doors any more." 

" Well, but, missis, you never would give your consent — to — to " 

" Nonsense, child ! to be sure I shouldn't. ^Vhat do you talk so for ? 
I would as soon have one of my own children sold. But really, Eliza, you 
are getting altogether too proud of that little fellow. A man can't put his 
nose into the door, but you think he must be coming to buy him." 

Re-assured by her mistress's confident tone, Eliza proceeded nimbly and 
adroitly with her toilet, laughing at her own fears as she proceeded. 

Mrs. Shelby was a woman of a high class, both intellectually and 
morally. To that natural magnanimity and generosity of mind which one 
often marks as characteristic of the women of Kentucky, she added high 
moral and religious sensibility and principle, carried out with great energy 
and ability into practical results. Her husband, who made no professions 
to any particular religious character, nevertheless reverenced and respected 
the consistency of hers, and stood, perhaps a little in awe of her opinion. 
Certain it was, that he gave her unlimited scope in all her benevolent 
efforts for the comfort, instruction, and improvement of her serv'ants, 
though he never took any decided part in them himself. In fact, if not 
exactly a believer in the doctrine of the efficiency of the extra good works 
of saints, he really seemed somehow or other to fancy that his wife had 
piety and benevolence enough for two — to indulge a shadowy expectation 
of getting into heaven through her superabundance of qualities to which 
he made no particular pretension. 

The heaviest load on his mind, after his conversation with the trader, 
lay in the foreseen necessity of breaking to his wife the arrangement 
contemplated — meeting the importunities and opposition which he knew 
he should have reason to encounter. 


Mrs. Shelby, being entirely ignorant of her husband's embarrassments, 
and knowing only the general kindliness of his temper, had been quite 
sincere in the entire incredulity with which she had met Eliza's suspicions. 
In fact, she dismissed the matter from her mind without a second thought , 
and, being occupied in preparations for an evening visit, it passed out 
of her thoughts entirely. 



Eliza had been brought up by her mistress, from girlhood, as a petted 
and indulged favourite. 

The traveller in the south must often have remarked that peculiar air of 
refinement, that softness of voice and manner, which seems in many cases 
to be a particular gift to the quadroon and mulatto women. These 
natural graces in the quadroon are often united with beauty of the most 
dazzling kind, and in almost every case with a personal appearance pre- 
possessing and agreeable. Eliza, such as we have described her, is not a 
fancy sketch, but taken from remembrance, as we saw her years ago in 
Kentucky. Safe under the protecting care of her mistress, Eliza had reached 
maturity without those temptations which make beauty so fatal an inheri- 
tance to a slave. She had been married to a bright and talented young 
mulatto man, who was a slave on a neighbouring estate, and bore the 
name of George Harris. 

This young man had been hired out by his master to work in a bagging- 
factory, where his adroitness and ingenuity caused him to be considered 
the first hand in the place. He had invented a machine for the cleaning 
of the hemp, which, considering the education and circumstances of 
the inventor, displayed quite as much mechanical genius as "V^'Tiitney's 

He was possessed of a handsome person and pleasing manners, and wa& 
a general favourite in the factory. Nevertheless, as this young man was in 
the eye of the law not a man, but a thing, all these superior quahfications 
were subject to the control of a vulgar, narrow-minded, tyrannical master. 
This same gentleman, having heard of the fame of George's invention, 
took a ride over to the factory, to see what this intelligent chattel had 
been about. He was received with great enthusiasm by the employer, 
who congratulated him on possessing so valuable a slave. 

He was waited upon over the factory, shown the machinery by George, 
who, in high spirits, talked so fluently, held himself so erect, looked so 
handsome and manly, that his master began to feel an uneasy conscious- 
ness of inferiority. What business had his slave to be marching round 
the country, inventing machines, and holding up his head among gentle- 
men? He'd soon put a stop to it. He'd take him back, and put 
him to hoeing and digging, and "see if he'd step about so smart." 
Accordingly, the manufacturer and all hands concerned were astounded 
when he suddenly demanded George's wages, and announced his intention 
of taking him home. 

1 A machine of this description was really the invention of a young coloured maii 
in Kentucky. 


"But, Mr. Harris," remonstrated the manufacturer, "isn't this rather 
sudden ? " 

" What if it is — isn't the man mine ? " 

"We would be wilUng, sir, to increase the rate of compensation." 

"No object at all, sir. I don't need to hire any of my hands out, 
unless I 've a mind to." 

" But, sir, he seems peculiarly adapted to this business." 

" Dare say he may be ; never was much adapted to anything that I set 
him about, I '11 be bound." 

" But only think of his inventing this machine," interposed one of the 
workmen, rather unluckily. 

" Oh, yes ! — a machine for saving work, is it ? He 'd invent that, I '11 
be bound; let a nigger alone for that, any time. They are all labour- 
saving machines themselves, every one of 'em. No, he shall tramp." 

George had stood like one transfixed, at hearing his doom thus suddenly 
pronounced by a power that he knew was irresistible. He folded his 
arms, tightly pressed in his lips, but a whole volcano of bitter feelings 
burned in his bosom, and sent streams of fire through his veins. He 
breathed short, and his large dark eyes flashed like live coals; and he 
might have broken out into some dangerous ebullition, had not the kindly 
manufacturer touched him on the arm, and said, in a low tone : 

"Give way, George; go with him for the present. We'll try to help 
you, yet." 

The tyrant observed the whisper, and conjectured its import, though he 
could not hear what was said ; and he inwardly strengthened himself in 
his determination to keep the power he possessed over his victim. 

George was taken home, and put to the meanest drudgery of the farm. 

He had been able to repress every disrespectful word ; but the flashing 
eye, the gloomy and troubled brow, were part of a natural language that 
could not be repressed — indubitable signs, which showed too plainly that 
the man could not become a thing. 

It was during the happy period of his employment in the factory that 
George had seen and married his wife. During that period — being much 
trusted and favoured by his employer — he had free liberty to come and go 
at discretion. The marriage was highly approved of by Mrs. Shelby, who, 
with a little womanly complacency in match-making, felt pleased to unite 
her handsome favourite with one of her own class who seemed in every 
way suited to her; and so they were married in her mistress's great 
parlour, and her mistress herself adorned the bride's beautiful hair with 
orange-blossoms, and threw over it the bridal veil, which certainly could 
scarce have rested on a fairer head; and there was no lack of white 
gloves, and cake and wine — of admiring guests to praise the bride's beauty, 
and her mistress's indulgence and liberality. For a year or two Eliza saw 
her husband frequently, and there was nothing to interrupt their happiness 
except the loss of two infant children, to whom she was passionately 
attached, and whom she mourned with a grief so intense as to call for 
gentle remonstrance from her mistress, who sought, with maternal anxiety, 
to direct her naturally passionate feelings within the bounds of reason and 

After the birth of little Harry, however, she had gradually become tran- 
quillised and settled ; and every bleeding tie and throbbing nerve, once 
more entwined with that little life, seemed to become sound and healthful, 
and Eliza was a happy woman up to the time that her husband was rudely 


torn from his kind employer, and brought under the iron sway of his 
legal owner. 

The manufacturer, true to his word, visited Mr. Harris a week or two 
after George had been taken away, when, as he hoped, the heat of the 
occasion had passed away, and tried every possible inducement to lead 
him to restore him to his former employment. 

"You needn't trouble yourself to talk any longer," said he doggedly; 
*' I know my own business, sir." 

" I did not presume to interfere with it, sir. I only thought that you 
might think it for your interest to let your man to us on the terms proposed." 

" Oh, I understand the matter well enough ! I saw your winking and 
whispering, the day I took him out of the factory ; but you don't come it 
over me that way. It's a free country, sir; the man's mine, and I do 
what I please with him — that 's it ! " 

And so fell George's last hope ; nothing before him but a life of toil and 
drudgery, rendered more bitter by every little smarting vexation and indig- 
nity which tyrannical ingenuity could devise. 

A very humane jurist once said, " The worst use you can put a man to 
is to hang him." No ; there is another use that a man can be put to that 
is worse! 



Mrs. Shelby had gone on her visit, and Eliza stood in the verandah, 
rather dejectedly looking after the retreating carriage, when a hand was 
laid on her shoulder. She turned, and a bright smile lighted up her fine 

" George, is it you ? How you frightened me ! Well ; I am so glad 
you 's come ! Missis is gone to spend the afternoon ; so come into my 
little room, and we '11 have the time all to ourselves." 

Sa)dng this, she drew him into a neat little apartment opening on the 
verandah, where she generally sat at her sewing, within caU of her 

" How glad I am ! — why don't you smile ? — and look at Harry — how he 
grows." The boy stood shyly regarding his father through his curls, 
holding close to the skirts of his mother's dress. " Isn't he beautiful ? " 
said Eliza, lifting his long curls and kissing him. 

" I wish he 'd never been born ! " said George bitterly. " I wish I 'd 
never been born myself ! " 

Surprised and frightened, Eliza sat down, leaned her head on her 
husband's shoulder, and burst into tears. 

" There now, Eliza, it 's too bad for me to make you feel so, poor girl ! " 
said he fondly ; " it 's too bad. Oh, how I wish you never had seen me 
— you might have been happy ! " 

" George ! George ! how can you talk so ? What dreadful thing has 
happened, or is going to happen ? I 'm sure we 've been very happy, till 

" So we have, dear," said George. Then drawing his child on his knee, 
he gazed intently on his glorious dark eyes, and passed his hands through 
his long curls. 


" Just like you, Eliza ; and you are the handsomest woman I ever saw, 
and the best one I ever wish to see ; but oh, I wish I 'd never seen you, 
nor you me ! " 

" O George, how can you ? " 

" Yes, Eliza, it 's all misery, misery, misery ! My life is bitter as worm- 
wood ; the very life is burning out of me. I 'm a poor, miserable, forlorn 
drudge ; I shall only drag you down with me, that 's all. What 's the use 
of our trying to do anything, trying to know anything, trying to be 
anything ? What 's the use of living ? I wish I was dead ! " 

" Oh, now, dear George, that is really wicked ! I know how you feel 
about losing your place in the factory, and you have a hard master ; but 
pray be patient, and perhaps something " 

" Patient ! " said he, interrupting her ; " haven't I been patient ? Did I 
say a word when he came and took me away, for no earthly reason, from 
the place where everybody was kind to me? I'd paid him truly every 
cent of my earnings ; and they all say I worked well." 

" Well, it IS dreadful," said Eliza ; " but, after all, he is your master, 
you know." 

" My master ! and who made him my master ? That 's what I think 
of — what right has he to me ? I 'm a man as much as he is ; I 'm a 
better man than he is ; I know more about business than he does ; 
I 'm a better manager than he is ; I can read better than he can ; I 
can write a better hand ; and I 've learned it all myself, and no thanks 
to him — I 've learned it in spite of him ; and now what right has he 
to make a dray-horse of me? — to take me from things I can do, and 
do better than he can; and put me to work that any horse can do? 
He tries to do it; he says he'll bring me down and humble me, 
and he puts me to just the hardest, meanest, and dirtiest work on 

" O George — George — you frighten me ! Why, I never heard you talk 
so; I'm afraid you'll do something dreadful. I don't wonder at your 
feelings at all; but, oh, do be careful — do, do — for my sake — for 

" I have been careful, and I have been patient ; but it 's growing worse 
and worse — flesh and blood can't bear it any longer. Every chance he 
can get to insult and torment me, he takes. I thought I could do my 
work well, and keep on quiet, and have some time to read and learn out 
of work-hours; but the more he sees I can do, the more he loads on. 
He says, that though I don't say anything, he sees I 've got the devil in 
me, and he means to bring it out ; and one of these days it will come out 
in a way that he won't like, or I 'm mistaken." 

" Oh, dear, what shall we do ? " said Eliza mournfully. 

"It was only yesterday," said George, "as I was busy loading stones 
into a cart, that young Mas'r Tom stood there, slashing his whip so near 
the horse, that the creature was frightened. I asked him to stop, as 
pleasant as I could : he just kept right on. I begged him again, and then 
he turned on me, and began striking me. I held his hand, and then he 
screamed, and kicked, and ran to his father, and told him that I was 
fighting him. He came in a rage, and said he 'd teach me who was my 
master ; and he tied me to a tree, and cut switches for young master, and 
told him that he might whip me till he was tired ; and he did do it. If I 
don't make him remember it some time." 

And the brow of the young man grew dark, and his eyes burned \dth. 


an expression that made his young wife tremble. " Who made this man 
my master — that 's what I want to know ? " he said. 

" Well," said Eliza mournfully, " I always thought that I must obey my 
master and mistress, or I couldn't be a Christian." 

" There is some sense in it, in your case ; they have brought you up 
like a child — fed you, clothed you, indulged you, and taught you, so that 
you have a good education — that is some reason why they should claim 
you. But I have been kicked, and cuffed, and sworn at, and at the best 
only let alone; and what do I owe? I've paid for all my keeping a 
hundred times over. I won't bear it — no, I won't/" he said, clenching 
his hand with a fierce frown. 

Eliza trembled and was silent. She had never seen her husband in this 
mood before ; and her gentle system of ethics seemed to bend like a reed 
in the surges of such passions. 

" You know poor little Carlo that you gave me ? " added George ; " the 
creature has been about all the comfort that I 've had. He has slept with 
me nights, and followed me around days, and kind o' looked at me as if 
he understood how I felt. Well, the other day I was just feeding him 
with a few old scraps I picked up by the kitchen-door, and mas'r came 
along, and said I was feeding him up at his expense, and that he couldn't 
afford to have every nigger keeping his dog, and ordered me to tie a stone 
to his neck, and throw him in the pond." 

" Oh, George, you didn't do it ! " 

" Do it — not I ; but he did. Mas'r and Tom pelted the poor drowning 
creature with stones. Poor thing ! he looked at me so mournful, as if he 
wondered why I didn't save him. I had to take a flogging because I 
wouldn't do it myself. I don't care ; mas'r will find out that I 'm one that 
whipping won't tame. My day will come yet, if he don't look out." 

" What are you going to do ? O George, don't do anything wicked ; 
if you only trust in God, and try to do right, he '11 deliver you." 

"I an't a Christian like you, Eliza; my heart's full of bitterness; I 
can't trust in God. Why does He let things be so ? " 

" O George, we must have faith ! Mistress says that when all things go 
wrong to us, we must believe that God is doing the very best." 

"That's easy to say, for people that are sitting on their sofas, and 
riding in their carriages ; but let 'em be where I am, I guess it would 
come some harder. I wish I could be good ; but my heart burns, and 
can't be reconciled anyhow. You couldn't, in my place ; you can't now, 
if I tell you all I 've got to say. You don't know the whole yet." 

" What can be coming now ? " 

" Well, lately mas'r has been saying that he was a fool to let me marry 
off the place ; that he hates Mr. Shelby and all his tribe, because they are 
proud, and hold their heads up above him, and that I 've got proud 
notions from you ; and he says he won't let me come here any more, and 
that I shall take a wife and settle down on his place. At first he only 
scolded and grumbled these things; but yesterday he told me that I 
should take Mina for a wife, and settle down in a cabin with her, or he 
would sell me down river." 

"Why, but you were married to me, by the minister, as much as if 
you 'd been a white man," said Eliza simply. 

"Don't you know a slave can't be married? There is no law in this 
country for that : I can't hold you for my wife if he chooses to part us. 
That 's why I wish I 'd never seen you, why I wish I 'd never been born ; 


it would have been better for us both — it would have been better for 
this poor child if he had never been born. All this may happen to 
him yet ! " 

" Oh, but master is so kind ! " 

"Yes, but who knows? he may die; and then he may be sold to 
nobody knows who. What pleasure is it that he is handsome, and 
smart, and bright? I tell you, Eliza, that a sword will pierce through 
your soul for every good and pleasant thing your child is or has — it will 
make him worth too much for you to keep." 

The words smote heavily on Eliza's heart ; the vision of the trader came 
before her eyes, and, as if some one had struck her a deadly blow, she 
turned pale and gasped for breath. She looked nervously out on the 
verandah, where the boy, tired of the grave conversation, had retired, and 
where he was riding triumphantly up and down on Mr. Shelby's walking- 
stick. She would have spoken to tell her husband her fears, but checked 

" No, no, he has enough to bear, poor fellow ! " she thought. " No, I 
won't tell him ; besides, it an't true ; missis never deceives us." 

" So, Eliza, my girl," said the husband mournfully, " bear up, now, and 
good-bye ; for I 'm going." 

" Going, George — going where ? " 

" To Canada," said he, straightening himself up ; " and when I 'm 
there, I '11 buy you — that 's all the hope that 's left us. You have a kind 
master, that won't refuse to sell you. I'll buy you and the boy — God 
helping me, I will ! " 

" Oh, dreadful — if you should be taken ! " 

" I won't be taken, Eliza— I '11 die first ! I '11 be free, or I '11 die ! " 

" You won't kill yourself ! " 

" No need of that ; they will kill me fast enough ; they will never get 
me down the river alive." 

"O George, for my sake, do be careful! Don't do anything wicked; 
don't lay hands on yourself, or anybody else. You are tempted too 
much — too much ; but don't — go you must — but go carefully, prudently ; 
pray God to help you." 

" Well, then, Eliza, hear my plan. Mas'r took it into his head to send 
me right by here with a note to Mr. Symes, that lives a mile past I 
believe he expected I should come here to tell you what I have. It 
would please him if he thought it would aggravate 'Shelby's folks,' as 
he calls 'em. I 'm going home quite resigned, you understand, as if all 
was over. I 've got some preparations made, and there are those that w^ill 
help me; and, in the course of a week or so, I shall be among the 
missing, some day. Pray for me, Eliza; perhaps the good Lord will 
hear you." 

" Oh, pray yourself, George, and go trusting in Him ; then you won't do 
anything wicked." 

" Well, now, good-bye" said George, holding Eliza's hands, and gazing 
into her eyes, without moving. They stood silent ; then there were last 
words, and sobs, and bitter weeping — such parting as those may make 
whose hope to meet again is as the spider's web ; and the husband and 
wife were parted. 




The cabin of Uncle Tom was a small log building, close adjoining to 
" the house," as the negro par excellence designates his master's dwelling. 
In front it had a neat garden-patch, where, every summer, strawberries, 
raspberries, and a variety of fruits and vegetables, flourished under careful 
tending. The whole front of it was covered by a large scarlet bignonia 
and a native multiflora rose, which, entwisting and interlacing, left scarce a 
vestige of the rough logs to be seen. Here also, in summer, various 
brilliant annuals, such as marigolds, petunias, four o'clocks, found an 
indulgent corner in which to unfold their splendours, and were the delight 
and pride of Aunt Chloe's heart. 

Let us enter the dwelling. The evening meal at the house is over, and 
Aunt Chloe, who presided over its preparation as head cook, has left to 
inferior officers in the kitchen the business of clearing away and washing 
dishes, and come out into her own snug territories, to " get her ole man's 
supper " ; therefore, doubt not that it is her you see by the fire, presiding 
with anxious interest over certain frizzling items in a stewpan, and anon, 
with grave consideration, lifting the cover of a bake-kettle, from whence 
steam forth indubitable intimations of "something good." A round, 
black, shining face is hers, so glossy as to suggest the idea that she might 
have been washed over with white of eggs, like one of her own tea rusks. 
Her whole plump countenance beams with satisfaction and contentment 
from under her well-starched checked turban, bearing on it, however, if 
we must confess it, a little of that tinge of self-consciousness which 
becomes the first cook of the neighbourhood, as Aunt Chloe was 
universally held and acknowledged to be. 

A cook she certainly was, in the very bone and centre of her soul. 
Not a chicken, or turkey, or duck in the barnyard, but looked grave 
when they saw her approaching, and seemed evidently to be reflecting 
on their latter end ; and certain it was that she was always meditating 
on trussing, stuffing, and roasting, to a degree that was calculated to 
inspire terror in any reflecting fowl living. Her corn-cake, in all its 
varieties of hoe-cake, dodgers, muffins, and other species too numerous to 
mention, was a sublime mystery to all less practised compounders ; and 
she would shake her fat sides with honest pride and merriment as she 
would narrate the fruitless efforts that one and another of her compeers 
had made to attain to her elevation. 

The arrival of company at the house, the arranging of dinners and 
suppers " in style," awoke all the energies of her soul j and no sight was 
more welcome to her than a pile of travelling trunks launched on the 
verandah ; for then she foresaw fresh efforts and fresh triumphs. 

Just at present, however. Aunt Chloe is looking into the bake-pan, in 
which congenial operation we shall leave her till we finish our picture of 
the cottage. 

In one corner of it stood a bed, covered neatly with a snowy spread ; 
and by the side of it was a piece of carpeting of some considerable size. On 
this piece of carpeting Aunt Chloe took her stand, as being decidedly in 


the upper walks of life ; and it and the bed by which it lay, and the whole 
corner, in fact, were treated with distinguished consideration, and made, 
so far as possible, sacred from the marauding inroads and desecrations of 
little folks. In fact, that corner was the drawing-room of the establish- 
ment. In the other corner was a bed of much humbler pretensions, and 
evidently designed for use. The wall over the fireplace was adorned with 
some very briUiant scriptural prints, and a portrait of General Washington, 
drawn and coloured in a manner which would certainly have astonished 
that hero, if ever he had happened to meet with its like. 

On a rough bench in the corner a couple of woolly-headed boys, with 
glistening black eyes, and fat, shining cheeks, were busy in superintending 
the first walking operations of the baby, which, as is usually the case, 
consisted in getting up on its feet, balancing a moment, and then tumbling 
down — each successive failure being violently cheered, as something 
decidedly clever. 

A table, somewhat rheumatic in its limbs, was drawn out in front of the 
fire, and covered with a cloth, displaying cups and saucers of a decidedly 
brilliant pattern, with other symptoms of an approaching meal. At this 
table was seated Uncle Tom, Mr. Shelby's best hand, who, as he is to be 
the hero of our story, we must daguerreotype for our readers. He was a 
large, broad-chested, powerfully-made man, of a full glossy black, and a 
face whose truly African features were characterised by an expression of 
grave and steady good sense, united with much kindliness and benevolence. 
There was something about his whole air self-respecting and dignified, yet 
united with a confiding and humble simplicity. 

He was very busily intent at this moment on a slate lying before him, 
on which he was carefully and slowly endeavouring to accomplish a copy 
of some letters, in which operation he was overlooked by young Mas'r 
George, a smart, bright boy of thirteen, who appeared fully to realize the 
dignity of his position as instructor. 

" Not that way. Uncle Tom — not that way," said he briskly, as Uncle 
Tom laboriously brought up the tail of his g the wrong side out ; " that 
makes a q, you see." 

" La, sakes, now does it ? " said Uncle Tom, looking with a respectful, 
admiring air, as his young teacher flourishingly scrawled q's and g's 
innumerable for his edification ; and then, taking the pencil in his big, 
heavy fingers, he patiently recommenced. 

" How easy white folks al'us does things ! " said Aunt Chloe, pausing 
while she was greasing a griddle with a scrap of bacon on her fork, and 
regarding young Mas'r George with pride. " The way he can write now ! 
and read, too ! and then to come out here evenings and read his lessons 
to us — it 's mighty interestin' ! " 

"But, Aunt Chloe, I'm getting mighty hungry," said George. "Isn't 
that cake in the skillet almost done ? " 

"Mose done, Mas'r George," said Aunt Chloe, lifting the lid, and 
peeping in ; " browning beautiful — a real lovely brown. Ah, let me alone 
for dat ! Missis let Sally try to make some cake t'other day, jes to larn 
her, she said. * Oh, go away, missis,' says I ; ' it really hurts my feelin's, 
now, to see good vittles spiled dat ar way ! ' Cake ris all to one side — no 
shape at all, no more than my shoe — go away ! " 

And with this final expression of contempt for Sally's greenness. Aunt 
Chloe whipped the cover off the bake-kettle, and disclosed to view a neatly- 
baked pound-cake, of which no city confectioner need to have been 


ashamed. This being evidently the central point of the entertainment, 
Aunt Chloe began now to bustle about earnestly in the supper depart- 

" Here you, Mose and Pete, get out de way, you niggers ! Get away, 
Polly, honey; mammy '11 give her baby somefin by-and-by. Now, Mas'r 
George, you jest take off dem books, and set down, now, with my old 
man, and I '11 take up de sausages, and have de first griddle full of cakes 
■on your plates in less dan no time." 

" They wanted me to come to supper in the house," said George ; " but 
I knew what was what too well for that. Aunt Chloe." 

"So you did — so you did, honey," said Aunt Chloe, heaping the 
smoking batter-cakes on his plate ; " you know'd your old aunty 'd keep 
the best for you. Oh, let you alone for dat — go 'way ! " 

And with that Aunty gave George a nudge with her finger, designed to 
be immensely facetious, and turned again to her griddle with great 

"Now for the cake," said Master George, when the activity of the 
griddle department had somewhat subsided ; and, with that, the youngster 
flourished a large knife over the article in question. 

" La bless you, Mas'r George ! " said Aunt Chloe, with earnestness, 
catching his arm, " you wouldn't be for cuttin' it \^'id dat ar great heavy 
knife ! Smash all dowTi — spile all de pretty rise of it ! Here, I 've got a 
thin old knife I keeps sharp a purpose. Dar now, see — comes apart light 
as a feather ! Now eat away — you won't get anything to beat dar ar ! " 

" Tom Lincoln says," said George, speaking with his mouth full, " that 
their Jinny is a better cook than you." 

" Dem Lincolns an't much 'count, no way," said Aunt Chloe contempt- 
uously ; " I mean, set alongside our folks. They's 'spectable folks enough 
in a kinder plain way ; but as to gettin' up anything in style, they don't 
begin to have a notion on't. Set Mas'r Lincoln, now, alongside Mas'r 
Shelby ! Good Lor ! and Missis Lincoln — can she kinder sweep it into 
a room like my missis — so kinder splendid, yer know ? Oh, go 'way ! 
don't tell me nothin' of dem Lincolns ! " and Aunt Chloe tossed her head 
as one who hoped she did know something of the world. 

" Well, though, I 've heard you say," said George, " that Jinny was a 
pretty fair cook." 

" So I did," said Aunt Chloe ; " I may say dat. Good, plain, common 
cookin'. Jinny '11 do ; make a good pone o' bread — bile her taters far. 
Her corn-cakes isn't extra, not extra now. Jinny's corn-cakes isn't, but then 
they 's far — but. Lor' come to de higher branches and what can she do ? 
Why, she makes pies — sartin she does ; but what kinder crust ? Can she 
make your real flecky paste, as melts in your mouth, and lies all up Uke a 
puff ? Now, I went over thar when Miss Mary was gwine to be married, 
and Jinny she jest showed me de weddin' pies. Jinny and I is good 
friends, ye know. I never said nothin' ; but go 'long, Mas'r George ! Why, 
I shouldn't sleep a wink for a week, if I had a batch of pies like dem ar. 
Why, dey wan't no 'count 't all." 

" I suppose Jinny thought they were ever so nice," said George. 

" Thought so ; — didn't she ? Thar she was, showing 'em, as innocent ! 
Ye see, it's jest here, Jinny don^t know. Lor' the family an't nothing! 
She can't be 'spected to know ! 'Tan't no fault o' hern. Ah, Mas'r George, 
you doesn't know half your privileges in yer family and bringin' up ! " 
Here Aunt Chloe sighed, and rolled up her eyes with emotion. 

I . ^s^Li mi^B^^mmtmmmgmmam/mmmmmm'mammim 


" I 'm sure, Aunt Chloe, I understand all my pie and pudding privileges," 
said George. "Ask Tom Lincoln if I don't crow over him every time I 
meet him." 

Aunt Chloe sat back in her chair, and indulged in a heavy guffaw of 
laughter at this witticism of young mas'r's, laughing till the tears rolled 
down her black, shining cheeks, and varying the exercise with playfully 
slapping and poking Mas'r Georgey, and telling him to go away, and that 
he was a case — that he was fit to kill her, and that he sartin would kill her 
one of these days ; and, between each of these sanguinary predictions, 
going off into a laugh, each longer and stronger than the other, till George 
really began to think that he was a very dangerously witty fellow, and that 
it became him to be careful how he talked " as funny as he could." 

"And so ye telled Tom, did ye ? O Lor' ! what young 'uns will be up 
ter ! Ye crowed over Tom ? O Lor' ! Mas'r George, if ye wouldn't make 
a hornbug laugh ! " 

"Yes," said George, "I says to him, *Tom, you ought to see some of 
Aunt Chloe's pies; they're the right sort,' says I." 

" Pity now, Tom couldn't," said Aunt Chloe, on whose benevolent heart 
the idea of Tom's benighted condition seemed to make a strong impres- 
sion. " Ye oughter just ask him here to dinner, some o' these times, Mas'r 
George," she added ; " it would look quite pretty of ye. Ye know, Mas'r 
George, ye oughtenter feel 'bove nobody, on 'count yer privileges, 'cause 
all our privileges is gi'n to us ; we ought al'ays to 'member that," said Aunt 
Chloe, looking quite serious. 

" Well, I mean to ask Tom here, some day next week," said George ; 
*' and you do your prettiest. Aunt Chloe, and we '11 make him stare. Won't 
we make him eat so he won't get over it for a fortnight ? " 

" Yes, yes — sartin," said Aunt Chloe, delighted ; you '11 see. Lor' ! to 
think of some of our dinners ! Yer mind dat ar great chicken pie I made 
when we guv de dinner to General Knox ? I and missis, we come pretty 
near quarrelling about dat ar crust. What does get into ladies sometimes, 
I don't know; but sometimes, when a body has de heaviest kind o' 'sponsi- 
bility on 'em, as ye may say, and is all kinder ' seris ' and taken up, dey 
takes dat ar time to be hangin' round and kinder interferin' ! Now, missis, 
she wanted me to do dis way, and she wanted me to do dat way ; and 
finally I got kinder sarcy, and says I, ' Now, missis, do jist look at dem 
beautiful white hands o' yourn, with long fingers, and all a sparkling ^\'ith 
rings, like my white lilies when de dew 's on 'em ; and look at my great 
black stumpin' hands. Now, don't ye think dat de Lord must have meant 
me to make de pie-crust, and you to stay in de parlour ? ' Dar ! I was jist 
so sarcy, Mas'r George." 

" And what did mother say ? " said George. 

" Say ? — why, she kinder larfed in her eyes — dem great handsome eyes 
o' hern ; and says she, * Well, Aunt Chloe, I think you are about in the 
right on't,' says she ; and she went off in de parlour. She oughter cracked 
me over de head for bein' so sarcy; but dar's whar' 'tis — I can't do nothin' 
with ladies in de kitchen ! " 

" Well, you made out well with that dinner — I remember everybody 
said so," said George. 

" Didn't I ? And wan't I behind the dinin'-room door dat berry day ? 
and didn't I see de Gineral pass his plate three times for some more dat 
berry pie ? and says he, ' You must have an uncommon cook, Mrs. Shelby.' 
Lor ! I was fit to split myself. 


"And de Gineral, he knows what cookin' is," said Aunt Chloe, drawing 
herself up with an air. " Bery nice man, de Gineral ! He comes of one 
of de hexyfustest families in Old Virginny ! He knows what's what, now, 
as well as I do — de Gineral. Ye see, there 's pints in all pies, Mas'r 
George ; but 'tan't everybody knows what they is, or orter be. But the 
Gineral, he knows ; I knew by his 'marks he made. Yes, he knows what 
de pints is ! " 

By this time. Master George had arrived at that pass to which even a 
boy can come (under common circumstances), when he really could not 
eat another morsel, and therefore he was at leisure to notice the pile of 
woolly heads and glistening eyes which were regarding his operations 
hungrily from the opposite corner. 

" Here, you Mose, Pete," he said, breaking off liberal bits, and throwing 
them at them ; " you want some, don't you ? Come, Aunt Chloe, bake 
them some cakes." 

And George and Tom moved to a comfortable seat in the chimney- 
corner ; while Aunt Chloe, after baking a goodly pile of cakes, took her 
baby on her lap, and began alternately filling its mouth and her own, and 
distributing to Mose and Pete, who seemed rather to prefer eating theirs as 
they rolled about on the floor under the table, tickling each other, and 
occasionally pulling the baby's toes. 

" Oh, go long, will ye ? " said the mother, giving now and then a kick, 
in a kind of general way, under the table, when the movement became 
too obstreperous. " Can't ye be decent when white folks come to see ye ? 
Stop dat ar, now, will ye ? Better mind yerselves, or I '11 take ye down a 
button-hole lower, when Mas'r George is gone ! " 

What meaning was couched under this terrible threat it is difficult to 
say ; but certain it is that its awful indistinctness seemed to produce very 
little impression on the young sinners addressed. 

" La, now ! " said Uncle Tom, " they are so full of tickle all the while, 
they can't behave theirselves." 

Here the boys emerged from under the table, and, with hands and faces 
well plastered with molasses, began a vigorous kissing of the baby. 

" Get along wid ye ! " said the mother, pushing away their woolly heads. 
" Ye '11 all stick together, and never get clar, if ye do dat fashion. Go 'long 
to de spring and wash yourselves ! " she said, seconding her exhortations 
by a slap, which resounded very formidably, but which seemed only to 
knock out so much more laugh from the young ones, as they tumbled 
precipitately over each other out of doors, where they fairly screamed with 

" Did ye ever see such aggravatin' young 'uns ? " said Aunt Chloe, 
rather complacently, as, producing an old towel, kept for such emergencies, 
she poured a little water out of the cracked teapot on it, and began rubbing 
off the molasses from the baby's face and hands ; and having polished her 
till she shone, she set her down in Tom's lap, while she busied herself in 
clearing away supper. The baby employed the intervals in pulling Tom's 
nose, scratching his face, and burying her fat hands in his woolly hair, 
which last operation seemed to afford her special content. 

" An't she a peart young 'un ! " said Tom, holding her from him to 
take a full-length view ; then, getting up, he set her on his broad shoulder, 
and began capering and dancing with her, while Mas'r George snapped at 
her with his pocket-handkerchief, and Mose and Pete, now returned again, 
roared after her like bears, till Aunt Chloe declared that they " fairly took 


her head off" with their noise. As, according to her own statement, this 
surgical operation was a matter of daily occurrence in the cabin, the 
declaration no whit abated the merriment, till every one had roared, and 
tumbled, and danced themselves down to a state of composure. 

"Well, now I hopes you are done," said Aunt Chloe, who had been 
busy in pulling out a rude box of a trundle-bed ; " and now, you Mose 
and you Pete, get into thar ; for we 's going to have the meetin'." 

" Oh, mother, we don't wanter. We wants to sit up to meetin' — meetin's 
is so curis. We likes 'em." 

" La, Aunt Chloe, shove it under, and let 'em sit up," said Mas'r George, 
decisively, giving a push to the rude machine. 

Aunt Chloe, having thus saved appearances, seemed highly delighted to 
push the thing under, saying, as she did so, " Well, mebbe 't will do 'em 
some good." 

The house now resolved itself into a committee of the whole, to consider 
the accommodations and arrangements for the meeting. 

" What we 's to do for cheers, now, / declar' I don't know," said Aunt 
Chloe. As the meeting had been held at Uncle Tom's weekly, for an 
indefinite length of time, without any more " cheers," there seemed some 
encouragement to hope that a way would be discovered at present. 

" Old Uncle Peter sung both de legs out of dat oldest cheer, last week," 
suggested Mose. 

" You go along ! I '11 boun' you pulled 'em out ; some o' your shines," 
said Aunt Chloe. 

" Well, it '11 stand, if it only keeps jam up agin de wall ! " said Mose. 

" Den Uncle Peter mustn't sit in it, 'cause he al'ays hitches when he 
gets a-smging. He hitched pretty nigh across de room, t'other night," 
said Pete. 

" Good Lor' ! get him in it, then," said Mose, " and den he 'd begin, 
'Come, saints and sinners, hear me tell,' and den down he'd go" — and 
Mose imitated precisely the nasal tones of the old man, tumbling on the 
floor to illustrate the supposed catastrophe. 

"Come, now, be decent, can't ye?" said Aunt Chloe. "An't yer 
ashamed ? " 

Mas'r George, however, joined the offender in the laugh, and declared 
decidedly that Mose was a "buster." So the maternal admonition seemed 
rather to fail of effect. 

"Well, ole man," said Aunt Chloe, "you'll have to tote in them ar 

" Mother's bar'ls is like dat ar Avidder's Mas'r George was reading 'bout 
in de good book — dey never fails," said Mose, aside to Pete. 

" I 'm sure one on 'em caved in last week," said Pete, " and let 'em all 
down in de middle of de singin' ; dat ar was faihn', warn't it ? " 

During this aside between Mose and Pete, two empty casks had been 
rolled into the cabin, and being secured from rolling by stones on each 
side, boards were laid across them, which arrangement, together with the 
turning down of certain tubs and pails, and the disposing of the rickety 
chairs, at last completed the preparation. 

" Mas'r George is such a beautiful reader, now, I know he '11 stay to 
read for us," said Aunt Chloe; "'pears like 'twill be so much more 

George very readily consented, for your boy is always ready for anything 
that makes him of importance. 


The room was soon filled with a motley assemblage, from the old grey- 
headed patriarch of eighty, to the young girl and lad of fifteen. A little 
harmless gossip ensued on various themes, such as where old Aunt Sally 
got her new red headkerchief, and how " missis was a-goin' to give Lizzie 
that spotted muslin gown, when she 'd got her new berage made up " ; and 
how Mas'r Shelby was thinking of buying a new sorrel colt, that was going 
to prove an addition to the glories of the place. A few of the worshippers 
belonged to families hard by, who had got permission to attend, and who 
brought in various choice scraps of information, about the sayings and 
doings at the house and on the place, which circulated as freely as the 
same sort of small change does in higher circles. 

After awhile the singing commenced, to the evident delight of all 
present. Not even all the disadvantage of nasal intonation could prevent 
the effect of the naturally fine voices, in airs at once wild and spirited. 
The words were sometimes the well-known and common hymns sung in 
the churches about, and sometimes of a wilder, more indefinite character, 
picked up at camp-meetings. 

The chorus of one of them, which ran as follows, was sung with great 
energy and unction :— « dj^ on the field of battle, 

Die on the field of battle, 
Glory in my soul." 

Another special favourite had oft repeated the words — 

" Oh, I 'm going to glory — won't you come along with me ? 
Don't you see the angels beck'ning, and a calling me away ? 
Don't you see the golden city, and the everlasting day ? " 

There were others, which made incessant mention of "Jordan's banks,'* 
and " Canaan's fields," and the " New Jerusalem " ; for the negro mind, 
impassioned and imaginative, always attaches itself to hymns and 
expressions of a vivid and pictorial nature; and, as they sang, some 
laughed, and some cried, and some clapped hands, or shook hands 
rejoicingly with each other, as if they had fairly gained the other side of 
the river. 

Various exhortations, or relations of experience, followed, and inter- 
mingled with the singing. One old grey-headed woman, long past work, 
but much revered as a sort of chronicle of the past, rose, and leaning on 
her staff, said — 

" Well, chil'en ! Well, I 'm mighty glad to hear ye all, and see ye all 
once more, 'cause I don't know when I '11 be gone to glory ; but I 've done 
got ready, chil'en ; 'pears like I 'd got my little bundle all tied up, and my 
bonnet on, jest a-waitin' for the stage to come along and take me home ; 
sometimes, in the night, I think I hear the wheels a-rattlin', and I 'm 
looking out all the time. Now, you jest be ready too, for I tell ye all, 
chil'en," she said, striking her staff hard on the floor, " dat ar glory is a 
mighty thing ! It 's a mighty thing, chil'en — you don'no know nothing 
about it — it 's wonderful/ " And the old creature sat down, with streaming 
tears, as wholly overcome, while the whole circle struck up — 

" Oh, Canaan, bright Canaan, 
I 'm bound for the land of Canaan." 

Mas'r George, by request, read the last chapters of Revelation, often 
interrupted by such exclamations as " The sakes, now ! " " Only hear 
that ! " " Jest think on 't ! " " Is all that a-comin' sure enough ? " 

George, who was a bright boy, and well trained in religious things by 



his mother, finding himself an object of general admiration, threw in 
expositions of his own, from time to time, with a commendable seriousness 
and gravity, for which he was admired by the young, and blessed by the 
old ; and it was agreed, on all hands, that a " minister couldn't lay it off" 
better than he did " ; that " 'twas reely 'mazin' ! " 

Uncle Tom was a sort of patriarch in religious matters in the neighbour- 
hood. Having, naturally, an organization in which the morale was strongly 
predominant, together with a greater breadth and cultivation of mind than 
obtained among his companions, he was looked up to with great respect, 
as a sort of minister among them ; and the simple, hearty, sincere style of 
his exhortations might have edified even better educated persons. But it 
was in prayer that he especially excelled. Nothing could exceed the 
touching simplicity, the childlike earnestness of his prayer, enriched with 
the language of Scripture, which seemed so entirely to have wrought itself 
into his being, as to have become a part of himself, and to drop from his- 
lips unconsciously ; in the language of a pious old negro, he " prayed right 
up." And so much did his prayer always work on the devotional feelings 
of his audiences, that there seemed often a danger that it would be lost 
altogether in the abundance of the responses which broke out everywhere 
around him. 

While this scene was passing in the cabin of the man, one quite other- 
wise passed in the halls of the master. 

The trader and Mr. Shelby were seated together in the dining-room 
afore-named, at a table covered with papers and writing utensils. 

Mr. Shelby was busy in counting some bundles of bills, which, as they 
were counted, he pushed over to the trader, who counted them likewise, 

"All fair," said the trader; "and now for signing these yer." 

Mr. Shelby hastily drew the bills of sale towards him, and signed them 
like a man that hurries over some disagreeable business, and then pushed 
them over with the money. Haley produced, from a well-worn vaUse, 
a parchment, which, after looking over it a moment, he handed to 
Mr. Shelby, who took it with a gesture of suppressed eagerness. 

" Wal, now the thing 's done I " said the trader, getting up, 

" It 's done ! " said Mr. Shelby, in a musing tone ; and, fetching a long 
breath, he repeated, "It's done/" 

" Yer don't seem to feel much pleased with it, 'pears to me," said the 

" Haley," said Mr. Shelby, " I hope you '11 remember that you promised 
on your honour, you wouldn't sell Tom, without knowing what sort of 
hands he 's going into." 

" Why, you 've just done it, sir," said the trader. 

" Circumstances, you well know, obliged me," said Shelby haughtily. 

" Wal, you know they may 'blige ine, too," said the trader. " Howsom- 
ever, I '11 do the very best I can in gettin' Tom a good berth ; as to my 
treatin' on him bad, you needn't be a grain afeard. If there 's anything 
that I thank the Lord fer, it is that I 'm never noways cruel." 

After the expositions which the trader had previously given of his 
humane principles, Mr. Shelby did not feel particularly re-assured by these 
declarations ; but as they were the best comfort the case admitted of, he 
allowed the trader to depart in silence, and betook himself to a solitary- 




Mr. and Mrs. Shelby had retired to their apartment for the night. 
He was lounging in a large easy chair, looking over some letters that had 
come in the afternoon mail, and she was standing before her mirror, 
brushing out the complicated braids and curls in which Eliza had arranged 
her hair ; for, noticing her pale cheeks and haggard eyes, she had excused 
her attendance that night, and ordered her to bed. The employment, 
naturally enough, suggested her conversation with the girl in the morning ; 
and turning to her husband, she said carelessly : 

" By-the-bye, Arthur, who was that low-bred fellow that, you lugged in 
to our dinner-table to-day ? " 

" Haley is his name," said Shelby, turning himself rather uneasily in 
his chair, and continuing with his eyes fixed on a letter. 

" Haley ! Who is he, and what may be his business here, pray ? " 

"Well, he's a man that I transacted some business with last time I 
was at Natchez," said Mr. Shelby. 

" And he presumed on it to make himself quite at home, and call and 
<iine here, eh ? " 

" Why, I invited him ; I had some accounts with him," said Shelby. 

" Is he a negro trader?" said Mrs. Shelby, noticing a certain embarrass- 
ment in her husband's manner. 

" Why, my dear, what put that into your head ? " said Shelby, looking 

"Nothing — only Eliza came m here, after dmner, in a great worry, 
crying and taking on, and said you were talking with a trader, and that 
she heard him make an offer for her boy — the ridiculous little goose ! " 

"She did, hey?" said Mr. Shelby, returning to his paper, which he 
seemed for a few moments quite intent upon, not perceiving that he was 
holding it bottom upwards. 

" It will have to come out," said he mentally ; " as well now as ever." 

" I told Eliza," said Mrs. Shelby, as she continued brushing her hair, 
" that she was a little fool for her pains, and that you never had anjrthing 
to do with those sort of persons. Of course, I knew you never meant to 
sell any of our people — least of all, to such a fellow." 

"Well, Emily," said her husband, "so I have always felt and said; 
but the fact is, my business lies so that I cannot get on without. I shall 
have to sell some of my hands." 

" To that creature ? Impossible ! Mr. Shelby, you cannot be serious." 

" I am sorry to say that I am," said Mr. Shelby. " I 've agreed to sell 

" What ! our Tom ? — that good faithful creature ! — been your faithful 
servant from a boy ! Oh, Mr. Shelby ! — and you have promised him his 
freedom, too — you and I have spoken to him a hundred times of it. 
Well, I can believe anything now ; I can believe now that you could sell 
■ little Harry, poor Eliza's only child ! " said Mrs. Shelby, in a tone between 
grief and indignation. 

" Well, since you must know all, it is so. I have agreed to sell Tom 


and Harry both ; and I don't know why I am to be rated as if I were a 
monster, for doing what every one does every day." 

" But why, of all others, choose these ? " said Mrs. Shelby. " Why sell 
them, of all on the place, if you must sell at all ? " 

" Because they will bring the highest sum of any — that 's why. I could 
choose another, if you say so. The fellow made me a high bid on Eliza, 
if that would suit you any better," said Mr. Shelby. 

" The wretch ! " said Mrs. Shelby vehemently. 

" Well, I didn't listen to it a moment — out of regard to your feelings, 
I wouldn't; so give me some credit." 

" My dear," said Mrs. Shelby, recollecting herself, " forgive me. I have 
been hasty. I was surprised, and entirely unprepared for this ; but surely 
you will allow me to intercede for these poor creatures. Tom is a noble- 
hearted, faithful fellow, if he is black. I do believe, Mr. Shelby, that if 
he were put to it, he would lay down his life for you." 

" I know it — I dare say ; but what 's the use of all this ? I can't help 

" Why not make a pecuniary sacrifice ? I 'm wilHng to bear my part of 
the inconvenience. Oh, Mr. Shelby, I have tried— tried most faithfully, as 
a Christian woman should — to do my duty to these poor, simple, depen- 
dent creatures. I have cared for them, instructed them, watched over 
them, and known all their little cares and joys, for years ; and how can 
I ever hold up my head again among them, if, for the sake of a little 
paltry gain, we sell such a faithful, excellent, confiding creature as poor 
Tom, and tear from him in a moment all we have taught him to love and 
value ? I have taught them the duties of the family, of parent and child, 
and husband and wife ; and how can I bear to have this open acknowledg- 
ment that we care for no tie, no duty, no relation, however sacred, 
compared with money? I have talked with Eliza about her boy — her 
duty to him as a Christian mother, to watch over him, pray for him, and 
bring him up in a Christian way ; and now what can I say, if you tear him 
away, and sell him, soul and body, to a profane, unprincipled man, just to 
save a little money ? I have told her that one soul is worth more than all 
the money in the world ; and how will she believe me when she sees us 
turn round and sell her child ? — sell him, perhaps, to certain ruin of body 
and soul ! " 

" I 'm sorry you feel so about it, Emily — indeed I am," said Mr. Shelby ; 
" and I respect your feelings, too, though I don't pretend to share them to 
their full extent ; but I tell you now, solemnly, it 's of no use — I can't help 
myself. I didn't mean to tell you this, Emily ; but, in plain words, there 
is no choice between selling these two and selling everything. Either 
they must go, or all must. Haley has come into possession of a mort- 
gage, which, if I don't clear off with him directly, will take everything 
before it. I've raked, and scraped, and borrowed, and all but begged, 
and the price of these two was needed to make up the balance, and I had 
to give them up. Haley fancied the child ; he agreed to settle the matter 
that way, and no other. I was in his power, and had to do it. If you 
feel so to have them sold, would it be any better to have all sold ? " 

Mrs. Shelby stood like one stricken. Finally, turning to her toilet, she 
rested her face in her hands and gave a sort of groan. 

"This is God's curse -on slavery ! — a bitter, bitter, most accursed thing ! 
— a curse to the master and a curse to the slave ! I was a fool to think I 
could make anything good out of such a deadly evil. It is a sin to holcj 



a slave under laws like ours; I always felt it was — I always thought so 
when I was a girl — I thought so still more after I joined the church ; but 
I thought I could gild it over — I thought, by kindness, and care, and 
instruction, I could make the condition of mine better than freedom — 
fool that I was ! " 

" Why, wife, you are getting to be an abolitionist, quite." 

" Abolitionist ! if they knew all I know about slavery they might talk ! 
We don't need them to tell us ; you know I never thought that slavery 
was right — never felt willing to own slaves." 

"Well, therein you differ from many wise and pious men," said Mr. 
Shelby. "You remember Mr. B.'s sermon the other Sunday?" 

" I don't want to hear such sermons ; I never wish to hear Mr. B. in 
our church again. Ministers can't help the evil, perhaps — can't cure it, 
any more than we can — but defend it ! — it always went against my 
common-sense. And I think you didn't think much of that sermon, 

" Well," said Shelby, " I must say these ministers sometimes carry 
matters further than we poor sinners would exactly dare to do. We men 
of the world must wink pretty hard at various things, and get used to 
a deal that isn't the exact thing. But we don't quite fancy, when women 
and ministers come out broad and square, and go beyond us in matters of 
either modesty or morals, that's a fact. But now, my dear, I trust you 
see the necessity of the thing, and you see that I have done the very best 
that circumstances would allow." 

" Oh, yes, yes ! " said Mrs. Shelby, hurriedly and abstractedly fingering 
her gold watch. "I haven't any jewellery of any amount," she added, 
thoughtfully ; " but would not this watch do something ? — it was an expen- 
sive one when it was bought. If I could only, at least, save Eliza's child, 
I would sacrifice anything I have." 

" I 'm sorry, very sorry, Emily," said Mr. Shelby. " I 'm sorry this 
takes hold of you so ; but it will do no good. The fact is, Emily, the 
thing 's done ; the bills of sale are already signed, and in Haley's hands ; 
and you must be thankful it is no worse. That man has had it in his 
power to ruin us all, and now he is fairly off. If you knew the man as I 
do, you 'd think that we had had a narrow escape." 

" Is he so hard, then ? " 

"Why, not a cruel man exactly, but a man of leather — a man alive 
to nothing but trade and profit — cool, and unhesitating, and unrelenting 
as death and the grave. He 'd sell his own mother at a good percentage 
— not wishing the old woman any harm, either." 

" And this wretch owns that good, faithful Tom, and Eliza's child ? " 

"Well, my dear, the fact is, that this goes rather hard with me — it's 
a thing I hate to think of: Haley wants to drive matters, and take 
possession to-morrow. I'm going to get out my horse bright and early, 
and be off. I can't see Tom, that 's a fact ; and you had better arrange a 
drive somewhere, and carry Eliza off. Let the thing be done when she is 
out of sight." 

" No, no," said Mrs. Shelby ; " I '11 be in no sense accomplice or help 
in this cruel business. I'll go and see poor old Tom, God help him, 
in his distress ! They shall see, at any rate, that their mistress can feel 
for and with them. As to Eliza, I dare not think about it. The Lord 
forgive us ! What have we done that this cruel necessity should come 
upon us?" 


There was one listener to this conversation whom Mr. and Mrs. Shelby 
little suspected. 

Communicating with their apartment was a large closet, opening by 
a door into the outer passage. When Mrs. Shelby had dismissed Eliza 
for the night, her feverish and excited mind had suggested the idea of 
this closet; and she had hidden hetself there, and, with her ear pressed 
close against the crack of the door, had lost not a word of the conversation. 

When the voices died into silence, she rose and crept stealthily away. 
Pale, shivering, with rigid features and compressed lips, she looked an 
entirely altered being from the soft and timid creature she had been 
hitherto. She moved cautiously along the entry, paused one moment 
at her mistress's door, and raised her hands in mute appeal to Heaven, 
and then turned and glided into her own room. It was a quiet, neat 
apartment, on the same floor with her mistress. There was the pleasant 
sunny window where she had often sat singing at her sewing ; there a 
little case of books, and various little fancy articles ranged by them, the 
gifts of Christmas holidays ; there was her simple wardrobe in the closet 
and in the drawers ; here was, in short, her home, and, on the whole, 
a happy one it had been to her. But there, on the bed, lay her slum- 
bering boy, his long curls falling negligently around his unconscious facC;, 
his rosy mouth half open, his fat little hands thrown out over the bed- 
clothes, and a smile spread like a sunbeam over his whole face. 

"Poor boy! poor fellow!" said Eliza; "they have sold you; but your 
mother will save you yet ! " 

No tear dropped over that pillow. In such straits as these the heart 
has no tears to give ; it drops only blood, bleeding itself away in silence. 
She took a piece of paper and a pencil, and wrote hastily : 

" Oh, missis ! dear missis ! don't think me ungrateful — don't think hard 
of me, any way ! I heard all you and master said to-night. I am going 
to try to save my boy — you will not blame me ! God bless and reward 
you for all your kindness ! " 

Hastily folding and directing this, she went to a drawer, and made up a 
little package of clothing for her boy, which she tied with a handkerchief 
firmly round her waist ; and so fond is a mother's remembrance, that, 
even in the terrors of that hour, she did not forget to put in the little 
package one or two of his favourite toys, reserving a gaily-painted parrot 
to amuse him when she should be called on to awaken him. It was some 
trouble to arouse the little sleeper; but, after some effort, he sat up^ 
and was playing with his bird, while his mother was putting on her bonnet 
and shawl. 

"Where are you going, mother?" said he, as she drew near the bed 
with his little coat and cap. 

His mother drew near, and looked so earnestly into his eyes, that he at 
once divined that something unusual was the matter. 

" Hush ! Harry," she said ; " mustn't speak loud, or they will hear us. 
A wicked man was coming to take little Harry away from his mother, and 
carry him 'way off in the dark ; but mother won't let him — she 's going to 
put on her little boy's cap and coat, and run off with him, so the ugly 
man can't catch him." 

Saying these words, she had tied and buttoned on the child's simple 
outfit, and, taking him in" her arms, she whispered to him to be very still ; 
and, opening a door in her room, which led into the outer verandah, she 
ghded noiselessly out. 


It was a sparkling, frosty, starlight night, and the mother wrapped 
the shawl close round her child, as, perfectly quiet with vague terror, 
he clung round her neck. 

Old Bruno, a great Newfoundland, who slept at the end of the porch, 
rose, with a low growl, as she came near. She gently spoke his name, 
and the animal, an old pet and playmate of hers, instantly wagging 
his tail, prepared to follow her, though apparently revolving much, in his 
simple dog's head, what such an indiscreet midnight promenade might 
mean. Some dim ideas of imprudence or impropriety in the measure 
seemed to embarrass him considerably; for he often stopped, as Eliza 
glided forward, and looked wistfully, first at her and then at the house, 
and then, as if reassured by reflection, he patted along after her again. A 
few minutes brought them to the window of Uncle Tom's cottage, and 
Eliza stopping, tapped lightly on the window-pane. 

The prayer-meeting at Uncle Tom's had, in the order of hymn-singing, 
been protracted to a very late hour; and as Uncle Tom had indulged 
himself in a few lengthy solos afterwards, the consequence was that, 
although it was now between twelve and one o'clock, he and his worthy 
helpmeet were not yet asleep. 

" Good Lord ! what 's that ? " said Aunt Chloe, starting up, and hastily 
drawing the curtain. " My sakes alive, if it an't Lizy ! Get on your 
clothes, old man, quick ! There 's old Bruno, too, a-pawin' round — what 
on airth ! I 'm gwine to open the door." 

And, suiting the action to the word, the door flew open, and the light of 
the tallow candle, which Tom had hastily lighted, fell on the haggard face 
and dark wild eyes of the fugitive. 

" Lord bless you ! I 'm skeered to look at ye, Lizy ! Are ye tuck sick, 
or what 's come over ye ? " 

"I'm running away, Uncle Tom and Aunt Chloe — carrying off my 
child. Master sold him ! " 

" Sold him ? " echoed both, lifting up their hands in dismay. 

" Yes, sold him ! " said Eliza firmly. " I crept into the closet by 
mistress's door to-night, and I heard master tell missis that he had sold 
my Harry and you, Uncle Tom, both to a trader, and that he was going 
off this morning on his horse, and that the man was to take possession 

Tom had stood during this speech with his hands raised, and his eyes 
dilated, like a man in a dream. Slowly and gradually, as its meaning 
came over him, he collapsed, rather than seated himself, on his old chair, 
and sunk his head down upon his knees. 

" The good Lord have pity on us ! " said Aunt Chloe. " Oh, it don't 
seem as if it was true ! What has he done that mas'r should sell him ? " 

"He hasn't done anything — it isn't for that. Master don't want to 
sell, and missis — she's always good. I heard her plead and beg for 
us ; but he told her 'twas no use — that he was in this man's debt, and that 
this man had got the power over him — and that if he didn't pay him 
off clear, it would end in his having to sell the place and all the people, 
and move off. Yes, I heard him say there was no choice between selling 
these two and selling all ; the man was driving him so hard. Master said 
he was sorry ; but, oh, missis ! you ought to have heard her talk ! If she 
an't a Christian and an angel, there never was one. I 'm a wicked girl to 
leave her so ; but then I can't help it. She said herself one soul was 
worth more than the world; and this boy has a soul, and if I let him 


be carried off, who knows what '11 become of it ? It must be right ; but if 
it an't right, the Lord forgive me, for I can't help doing it." 

" Well, old man," said Aunt Chloe, " why don't you go too ? Will you 
wait to be toted down river, where they kill niggers with hard work and 
starving ? I 'd a heap rather die than go there, any day ! There 's time 
for ye ; be off with Lizy — you 've got a pass to come and go any time. 
Come, bustle up, and I '11 get your things together." 

Tom slowly raised his head, and looked sorrowfully but quietly around, 
and said — 

"No, no; I an't going. Let Eliza go — it's her right. I wouldn't be 
the one to say no. 'T an't in natuf^ for her to stay ; but you heard what 
she said ! If I must be sold, or all the people on the place, and everything 
go to rack, why, let me be sold. I s'pose I can b'ar it as well as any 
on 'em," he added, while something like a sob and a sigh shook his broad, 
rough chest convulsively. " Mas'r always found me on the spot — he 
always will. I never have broke trust, nor used my pass no ways contrary 
to my word, and I never will. It's better for me alone to go than to 
break up the place and sell all. Mas'r an't to blame, Chloe ; and he '11 
take care of you and the poor " 

Here he turned to the rough trundle-bed full of little woolly heads, and 
broke fairly down. He leaned over the back of the chair, and covered 
his face with his large hands. Sobs, heavy, hoarse, and loud, shook the 
chair, and great tears fell through his fingers on the floor — just such tears, 
sir, as you dropped into the cofifin where lay your first-born son; such 
tears, woman, as you shed when you heard the cries of your dying babe — 
for, sir, he was a man, and you are but another man. And woman, 
though dressed in silk and jewels, you are but a woman, and, in life's 
great straits and mighty griefs, ye feel but one sorrow ! 

" And now," said Eliza, as she stood in the door, " I saw my husband 
only this afternoon, and I little knew then what was to come. They have 
pushed him to the very last standing-place, and he told me, to-day, that he 
was going to run away. Do try, if you can, to get word to him. Tell him 
how I went, and why I went ; and tell him I 'm going to try and find 
Canada. You must give my love to him, and tell him, if I never see him 
again " — she turned away, and stood with her back to them for a moment, 
and then added, in a husky voice, " tell him to be as good as he can, and 
try and meet me in the kingdom of heaven." 

"Call Bruno in there," she added. "Shut the door on him, poor 
beast ! He mustn't go with me ! " 

A few last words and tears, a few simple adieus and blessings, and, 
clasping her wondering and affrighted child in her arms, she glided 
noiselessly away. 



Mr. and Mrs. Shelby, after their protracted discussion of the night before, 
did not readily sink to repose, and, in consequence, slept somewhat later 
than usual the ensuing morning. 

"I wonder what keeps Eliza," said Mrs. Shelbj^, after giving her bell 
repeated pulls, to no purpose. 

Mr. Shelby was standing before his dressing-glass, sharpening his razor ; 


and just then the door opened, and a coloured boy entered with his 

"Andy," said his mistress, "step to Eliza's door, and tell her I have 
rung for her three times. Poor thing ! " she added, to herself, with a sigh. 

Andy soon returned, with eyes very wide in astonishment. 

" Lor, missis ! Lizy's drawers is all open, and her things all lying every 
which way ; and I believe she 's just done clared out ! " 

The truth flashed upon Mr. Shelby and his wife at the same moment. 
He exclaimed : 

"Then she suspected it, and she's off!" 

" The Lord be thanked ! " said Mrs. Shelby. " I trust she is." 

'•' Wife, you talk like a fool ! Really, it will be something pretty 
awkward for me if she is. Haley saw that I hesitated about selling this 
child, and he'll think I connived at it, to get him out of the way. It 
touches my honour ! " And Mr. Shelby left the room hastily. 

There was great running and ejaculating, and opening and shutting 
of doors, and appearance of faces in all shades of colour in different 
places, for about a quarter of an hour. One person only, who might 
have shed some light on the matter, was entirely silent, and that was the 
head cook. Aunt Chloe. Silently, and with a heavy cloud settled down 
over her once joyous face, she proceeded making out her breakfast 
biscuits, as if she heard and saw nothing of the excitement around her. 

Very soon about a dozen young imps were roosting, like so many crows, 
on the verandah railings, each one determined to be the first one to apprise 
the strange mas'r of his ill-luck. 

" He '11 be rael mad, I '11 be bound," said Andy. 

" Won't he swar ! " said little black Jake. 

"Yes, for he does swar," said woolly-headed Mandy. "I heam him 
yesterday, at dinner. I hearn all about it then, 'cause I got into the 
closet where missis keeps the great jugs, and I hearn every word." And 
Mandy, who had never in her life thought of the meaning of a word she 
had heard, more than a black cat, now took airs of superior wisdom, and 
strutted alDout, forgetting to state that, though actually coiled up among 
the jugs at the time specified, she had been fast asleep all the time. 

When at last Haley appeared, booted and spurred, he was saluted with 
the bad tidings on every hand. The young imps on the verandah were 
not disappointed in their hope of hearing him " swar," which he did with 
a fluency and fervency which delighted them all amazingly, as they ducked 
and dodged hither and thither, to be out of the reach of his riding-whip ; 
and all whooping off together, they tumbled, in a pile of immeasurable 
giggle, on the withered turf under the verandah, where they kicked up 
their heels and shouted to their full satisfaction. 

" If I had the little devils ! " muttered Haley between his teeth. 

"But you han't got 'em, though!" said Andy, with a triumphant 
flourish, and making a string of indescribable mouths at the unfortunate 
trader's back, when he was fairly beyond hearing. 

"I say now, Shelby, this yer's a most extro'rnary business!" said 
Haley, as he abruptly entered the parlour. " It seems that gal 's off, with 
her young 'un." 

" Mr. Haley, Mrs. Shelby is present," said Mr. Shelby. 

"I beg pardon, ma'am," said Haley, bowing slightly, with a still 
lowering brow; "but still I say, as I said before, this yer's a sing'lar 
report. Is it true, sir ? " 


"Sir," said Mr, Shelby, "if you wish to communicate with me, you 
must observe something of the decorum of a gentleman. Andy, take 
Mr. Haley's hat and riding-whip. Take a seat, sir. Yes, sir ; I regret to 
say that the young woman, excited by overhearing, or having reported to 
her, something of this business, has taken her child in the night, and 
made off." 

" I did expect fair dealing in this matter, I confess," said Haley. 

" Well, sir," said Mr. Shelby, turning sharply round upon him, " what 
am I to understand by that remark? If any man calls my honour in 
question, I have but one answer for him." 

The trader cowered at this, and in a somewhat low tone said that " it 
was plaguey hard on a fellow, that had made a fair bargain, to be gulled in 
that way." 

" Mr. Haley," said Mr. Shelby, " if I did not think you had some cause 
for disappointment, I should not have borne from you the rude and 
unceremonious style of your entrance into my parlour this morning. I say 
thus much, however, since appearances call for it, that I shall allow of no 
insinuations cast upon me, as if I were at all partner to any unfairness in 
■this matter. Moreover, I shall feel bound to give you every assistance, in 
the use of horses, servants, etc., in the recovery of your property. So, in 
short, Haley," said he, suddenly dropping from the tone of dignified cool- 
ness to his ordinary one of easy frankness, "the best way for you is to 
keep good-natured and eat some breakfast, and we will then see what is to 
be done." 

Mrs. Shelby now rose, and said her engagements would prevent her 
being at the breakfast-table that morning ; and deputing a very respectable 
mulatto woman to attend to the gentlemen's coffee at the sideboard, she 
left the room, 

" Old lady don't like your humble servant over and above," said Haley, 
with an uneasy effort to be very famiUar. 

" I am not accustomed to hear my wife spoken of with such freedom," 
said Mr. Shelby drily. 

" Beg pardon ; of course, only a joke, you know," said Haley, forcing a 

" Some jokes are less agreeable than others," rejoined Shelby. 

" Devilish free, now I 've signed those papers, cuss him ! " muttered 
Haley to himself; " quite grand, since yesterday ! " 

Never did fall of any prime minister at court occasion wider surges of 
sensation than the report of Tom's fate among his compeers on the place. 
It was the topic in every mouth, everywhere ; and nothing was done in the 
house or in the field, but to discuss its probable results. Eliza's flight — an 
unprecedented event on the place — was also a great accessory in stimulat- 
ing the general excitement. 

Black Sam, as he was commonly called, from his being about three 
shades blacker than any other son of ebony on the place, was revolving 
the matter profoundly, in all its phases and bearings, with a comprehen- 
siveness of vision, and a strict look-out to his own personal well-being, 
that would have done credit to any white patriot in Washington. 

" It 's an ill wind dat blows nowhar — dat ar a fact," said Sam, senten- 
tiously, giving an additional hoist to his pantaloons, and adroitly sub- 
stituting a long nail in place of a missing suspender-button, with which 
effort of mechanical genius he seemed highly delighted. 

" Yes, it 's an ill wind blows nowhar," he repeated. " Now, dar, Tom 's 


down — wal, course der 's room for some nigger to be up — and why not dis 
nigger ? — dat 's de idee. Tom, a-ridin' round de country — boots blacked 
— pass in his pocket — all grand as CufFee — who but he? Now, why 
shouldn't Sam ? — dat 's what I want to know." 

" Halloo, Sam — Oh, Sam ! Mas'r wants you to cotch Bill and Jerry," 
said Andy, cutting short Sam's soliloquy. 

" High ! what 's afoot now, young un ? " 

" Why, you don't know, I 'spose, that Lizy 's cut stick, and clared out 
with her young un ? " 

*' You teach your granny ! " said Sam, with infinite contempt ; " knowed 
it a heap sight sooner than you did ; this nigger an't so green, now ! " 

"Well, anyhow, mas'r wants Bill and Jerry geared right up; and you 
and I 's to go with Mas'r Haley, to look arter her." 

" Good, now ! dat 's de time o' day ! " said Sam. " It 's Sam dat 's 
called for in dese yer times. He 's de nigger. See if I don't cotch her, 
now ; mas'r '11 see what Sam can do ! " 

"Ah! but, Sam," said Andy, "you'd better think twice; for missis 
don't want her cotched, and she '11 be in yer wool ! " 

" High ! " said Sam, opening his eyes. " How you know dat ? " 

" Heard her say so, my own self, dis blessed mornin', when I bring in 
mas'r's shaving-water. She sent me to see why Lizy didn't come to dress 
her ; and when I telled her she was off, she just riz up, and ses she, ' The 
Lord be praised ! ' and mas'r he seemed real mad, and ses he, ' Wife, you 
talk like a fool ! ' But Lor ! she '11 bring him to ; I knows well enough how 
that '11 be — it 's allers best to stand missis' side the fence, now I tell yer." 

Black Sam, upon this, scratched his woolly pate, which, if it did not 
contain very profound wisdom, still contained a great deal of a particular 
species much in demand among politicians of all complexions and countries, 
and vulgarly denominated " knowing which side the bread is buttered " ; 
so, stopping with grave consideration, he again gave a hitch to his panta- 
loons, which was his regular organized method of assisting his mental 

" Der an't no sayin' — never — 'bout no kind o' thing in dis yer world," 
he said, at last. 

Sam spoke like a philosopher, emphasising this, as if he had had a large 
experience in different sorts of worlds, and therefore had come to his con- 
clusions advisedly. 

" Now, sartin I 'd a said that missis would a scoured the varsal world 
after Lizy," added Sam thoughtfully. 

" So she would," said Andy ; " but can't ye see through a ladder, ye 
black nigger ? Missis don't want dis yer Mas'r Haley to get Lizy's boy ; 
dat 's de go ! " 

" High ! " said Sam, with an indescribable intonation, known only to 
those who have heard it among the negroes. 

"And I'll tell yer more'n all," said Andy; "I specs you'd better be 
making tracks for dem bosses — mighty sudden, too — for I hearn missis 
'quiring' arter yer — so you 've stood foolin' long enough." 

Sam, upon this, began to bestir himself in real earnest, and after a while 
appeared, bearing down gloriously towards the house, with Bill and Jerry in 
a full canter, and adroitly throwing himself off before they had any idea of 
stopping, he brought them up alongside of the horse-post like a tornado. 
Haley's horse, which was a skittish young colt, winced, and bounced, and 
pulled hard at his halter. 


"Ho, ho !" said Sam, "skeery, are ye?" and his black visage lighted up 
with a curious, mischievous gleam. " I '11 fix ye, now ! " said he. 

There was a large beech-tree overshadowing the place, and the small, 
sharp, triangular beech-nuts lay scattered thickly on the ground. With one 
of these in his fingers, Sam approached the colt, stroked and patted, and 
seemed apparently busy in soothing his agitation. On pretence of adjusting 
the saddle, he adroitly slipped under it the sharp little nut, in such a manner 
that the least weight brought upon the saddle would annoy the nervous 
sensibilities of the animal, without leaving any perceptible graze or wound. 

" Dar ! " he said, rolling his eyes with an approving grin ; "me fix 'em !" 

At this moment Mrs. Shelby appeared on the balcony, beckoning to 
him. Sam approached with as good a determination to pay court as did 
ever suitor after a vacant place at St. James's or Washington. 

" Why have you been loitering so, Sam ? I sent Andy to tell you to 

" Lord bless you, missis ! " said Sam, " horses won't be cotched all in a 
minnit ; they 'd done clared out way down to the south pasture, and the 
Lord knows whar ! " 

" Sam, how often must I tell you not to say ' Lord bless you,' and ' the 
Lord knows,' and such things ? It 's wicked." 

" O Lord, bless my soul ! I done forget, missis ! I won't say nothing 
of de sort no more." 

" Why, Sam, you just have said it again." 

" Did I ? O Lord ! I mean — I didn't go fur to say it." 

"You must be careful, Sam." 

" Just let me get my breath, missis, and I '11 start fair. I '11 be berry 

" Well, Sam, you are to go with Mr. Haley, to show him the road, and 
help him. Be careful of the horses, Sam ; you know Jerry was a Httle 
lame last week; donH ride them too fast." 

Mrs. Shelby spoke the last words with a low voice, and strong emphasis. 

" Let dis child alone for dat ! " said Sam, rolling up his eyes with a 
volume of meaning. " Lord knows ! High ! Didn't say that ! " said he, 
suddenly catching his breath, with a ludicrous flourish of apprehension, 
which made his mistress laugh, spite of herself. " Yes, missis, I '11 look 
out for de bosses ! " 

" Now, Andy," said Sam, returning to his stand under the beech-trees, 
" you see I wouldn't be 'tall surprised if dat ar gen'lman's crittur should 
gib a fling, by-and-by, when he comes to be a-gettin' up. You know, 
Andy, critturs will do such things " ; and therewith Sam poked Andy in the 
side, in a highly suggestive manner. 

" High ! " said Andy, with an air of instant appreciation. 

" Yes ; you see, Andy, missis wants to make time, dat ar 's clar to der 
most or'nary 'bserver. I jis make a little for her. Now, you see, get all 
dese yer bosses loose, caperin' permiscus round dis yer lot and down to de 
wood dar, and I spec, mas'r won't be off" in a hurry." 

Andy grinned. 

"Yer see," said Sam, "yer see, Andy, if any such thing should happen 
as that Mas'r Haley's -horse should begin to act contrary, and cut up, you 
and I jist let 's go our'n to help him, and n'ell lielp him — oh, yes ! " And 
Sam and Andy laid their heads back on their shoulders, and broke into a 
low, immoderate laugh, snapping their fingers, and flourisliing their heels . 
with exquisite delight. 


At this instant, Haley appeared on the verandah. Somewhat molHfied 
by certain cups of very good coffee, he came out smiling and talking, in 
tolerably restored humour. Sam and Andy, clawing for certain fragmen- 
tary palm-leaves, which they were in the habit of considering as hats, flew 
to the horse-posts, to be ready to " help mas'r." 

Sam's palm-leaf had been ingeniously disentangled from all pretensions 
to braid, as respects its brim ; and the slivers starting apart, and standing 
upright, gave it a blazing air of freedom and defiance, quite equal to that 
of any Fejee chief; while the whole brim of Andy's being departed bodily, 
he rapped the crown on his head with a dexterous thump, and looked 
.about well pleased, as if to say, " Who says I haven't got a hat ? " 

" Well, boys," said Haley, " look alive now ; we must lose no time." 

" Not a bit of him, mas'r ! " said Sam, putting Haley's rein in his hand, 
.and holding his stirrup, while Andy was untying the other two horses. 

The instant Haley touched the saddle, the mettlesome creature bounded 
from the earth with a sudden spring that threv/ his master sprav/ling, some 
feet off, on the soft, dry turf. Sam, with frantic ejaculations, made a dive 
at the reins, but only succeeded in brushing the blazing palm-leaf afore- 
named into the horse's eyes, which by no means tended to allay the con- 
fusion of his nerves. So, with great vehemence, he overturned Sam, and 
giving two or three contemptuous snorts, flourished his heels vigorously in 
the air, and was soon prancing away towards the lower end of the lawn, 
followed by Bill and Jerry, whom Andy had not failed to let loose, according 
to contract, speeding them off with various direful ejaculations. And now 
ensued a miscellaneous scene of confusion. Sam and Andy ran and 
shouted — dogs barked here and there — and Mike, Mose, Mandy, Fanny, 
and all the smaller specimens on the place, both male and female, raced, 
clapped hands, whooped and shouted, with outrageous officiousness and 
untiring zeal. 

Haley's horse, which was a white one, and very fleet and spirited, 
appeared to enter into the spirit of the scene with great gusto ; and having 
for his coursing-ground a lawn of nearly half-a-mile in extent, gently sloping 
down on every side into indefinite woodland, he appeared to take infinite 
delight in seeing how near he could allow his pursuers to approach him, 
and then, when within a hand's breadth, whisk off with a start and a snort, 
like a mischievous beast as he was, and career far down into some alley of 
the wood-lot. Nothing was further from Sam's mind than to have any one 
of the troop taken until such season as should seem to him most befitting, 
and the exertions that he made were certainly most heroic. Like the 
sword of Coeur de Lion, which always blazed in the front and thickest of 
the battle, Sam's palm-leaf was to be seen ever5where where there was the 
least danger that a horse could be caught — there he would bear down full 
tilt, shouting, " Now for it ! cotch him ! cotch him ! " in a way that would 
set everything to indiscriminate rout in a moment. 

Haley ran up and down, and cursed and swore, and stamped miscel- 
laneously. Mr. Shelby in vain tried to shout directions from the balcony ; 
and Mrs. Shelby from her chamber-window alternately laughed and won- 
dered — not without some inkUng of what lay at the bottom of all this 

At last, about twelve o'clock, Sam appeared triumphant, mounted on 
Jerry, with Haley's horse by his side, reeking with sweat, but with flashing 
eyes and dilated nostrils, showing that the spirit of freedom had not yet 
. entirely subsided. 


"He's cotched!" he exclaimed triumphantly. "If't hadn't been for 
me, they might 'a bust theirselves, all on 'em ; but I cotched him ! " 

"You!" growled Haley, in no amiable mood. "If't hadn't been for 
you, this never would have happened." 

" Lord bless us, mas'r ! " said Sam, in a tone of the deepest concern ; 
*' and me that has been racin' and chasin' till the sweat jest pours off me ! " 

" Well, well ! " said Haley, " you 've lost me near three hours, with your 
cursed nonsense. Now let 's be off, and have no more fooling." 

"Why, mas'r," said Sam, in a deprecating tone, "I believe you mean to 
kill us all clar, horses and all. Here we are all just ready to drop down, 
and the critturs all in a reek of sweat. Why, mas'r won't think of startin' 
on now till arter dinner. Mas'r's horse wants rubben down ; see how he 
splashed hisself; and Jerry limps too; don't think missis would be willin' 
to have us start dis yer way, no how. Lord bless you, mas'r, we can ketch 
up, if we do stop ! Lizy never was no great of a walker." 

Mrs. Shelby, who, greatly to her amusement, had overheard this con- 
versation from the verandah, now resolved to do her part. She came for- 
ward, and, courteously expressing her concern for Haley's accident, pressed 
him to stay to dinner, saying that the cook should bring it on the table 
immediately. Thus, all things considered, Haley, with rather an equivocal 
grace, proceeded to the parlour, while Sam, rolling his eyes after him with 
unutterable meaning, proceeded gravely with the horses to the stable-yard. 

" Did yer see him, Andy ? did yer see him ? " said Sam, when he had 
got fairly beyond the shelter of the barn, and fastened the horse to a post. 
" O Lor', if it warn't as good as a meetin', now, to see him a-dancin' and 
kickin' and swarin' at us. Didn't I hear him? Swar away, ole fellow 
(says I to myself) ; will yer have yer hoss now, or wait till you cotch him ? 
(says I.) Lor', Andy, I think I can see him now." And Sam and Andy 
leaned up against the barn, and laughed to their hearts' content. 

" Yer oughter seen how mad he looked, when I brought the hoss up. 
Lord, he 'd a killed me, if he durs' to ; and there I was a-standin' as inner- 
cent and as humble." 

" Lor', I seed you ! " said Andy. " An't you an old hoss, Sam ?" 

" Rather 'specs I am," said Sam ; " did yer see missis upsta'rs, at the 
winder ? I seed her laughin'." 

" I 'm sure, I was racin' so, I didn't see nothing," said Andy. 

"Well, yer see," said Sam, proceeding gravely to wash down Haley's 
pony, " I'se 'quired what yer may call a habit o' ^ bobservation,' Andy. 
It 's a very 'portant habit, Andy ; and I 'commend yer to be cultivatin' it 
now yer young. Hist up that hind foot, Andy. Yer see, Andy, it's 
bobservation makes all de difference in niggers. Didn't I see which way 
the wind blew dis yer mornin' ? Didn't I see what missis wanted, though 
she never let on ? Dat ar 's bobservation, Andy. I 'spects it 's what you 
may call a faculty. Faculties is different in different peoples, but cultivation 
of 'em goes a great way." 

" I guess if I hadn't helped your bobservation dis mornin', yer wouldn't 
have seen your way so smart," said Andy. 

"Andy," said Sam, "you's a promisin' child, der an't no manner o' 
doubt. I thinks lots jof yer, Andy ; and I don't feel no ways ashamed to 
take idees from you. We oughtenter overlook nobody, Andy, 'cause the 
smartest on us gets tripped up sometimes. And so, Andy, let 's go up to 
the house now. I '11 be boun' missis '11 give us an uncommon good bite 
•dis yer time." 



THE mother's struggle. 

It is impossible to conceive of a human creature more wholly desolate 
and forlorn than Eliza, when she turned her footsteps from Uncle Tom's 

Her husband's suffering and dangers, and the danger of her child, all 
blended in her mind with a confused and stunning sense of the risk she 
was running, in leaving the only home she had ever known, and cutting 
loose from the protection of a friend whom she loved and revered. Then 
there was the parting from every familiar object — the place where she had 
grown up, the trees under which she had played, the groves where she had 
walked many an evening, in happier days, by the side of her young 
husband — everything, as it lay in the clear frosty starlight, seemed to 
speak reproachfully to her, and ask her whither could she go from a home 
like that ? 

But stronger than all was maternal love, wrought into a paroxysm of 
frenzy by the near approach of a fearful danger. Her boy was old enough 
to have walked by her side, and, in an indifferent case, she would only 
have led him by the hand ; but now the bare thought of putting him out 
of her arms made her shudder, and she strained him to her bosom with a 
convulsive grasp, as she went rapidly forward. 

The frosty ground creaked beneath her feet, and she trembled at the 
sound ; every quaking leaf and fluttering shadow sent the blood backward 
to her heart, and quickened her footsteps. She wondered within herself 
at the strength that seemed to be come upon her ; for she felt the weight 
of her boy as if it had been a feather, and every flutter of fear seemed to 
increase the supernatural power that bore her on, while from her pale Ups 
burst forth, in frequent ejaculations, the prayer to a Friend above, " Lord, 
help — Lord, save me ! " 

If it were your Harry, mother, or your Willie, that were going to be torn 
from you by a brutal trader, to-morrow morning, if you had seen the man, 
and heard that the papers were signed and delivered, and you had only 
from twelve o'clock till morning to make good your escape, how fast could 
you walk ? How many miles could you make in those few brief hours, 
with the darling at your bosom — the little sleepy head on your shoulder — • 
the small, soft arms trustingly holding on to your neck ? 

For the child slept. At first, the novelty and alarm kept him waking ; 
but his mother so hurriedly repressed every breath or sound, and so 
assured him that if he were only still she would certainly save him, that 
he clung quietly round her neck, only asking, as he found himself sinking 
to sleep — 

" Mother, I don't need to keep awake, do I ? " 

" No, my darling ; sleep, if you want to." 

" But, mother, if I do get asleep, you won't let him get me ? " 

" No ! so may God help me ! " said his mother, with a paler cheek, and 
a brighter light in her large dark eyes. 

" You 're sure, an't you, mother ? " 

"Yes, sure I" said the mother, in a voice that startled herself; for it 


seemed to her to come from a spirit within, that was no part of her ; and 
the boy dropped his Httle weary head on her shoulder, and was soon 
asleep. How the touch of those warm arms, the gentle breathings that 
came in her neck, seemed to add fire and spirit to her movements ! It 
seemed to her as if strength poured into her in electric streams, from 
every gentle touch and movement of the sleeping, confiding child. 
Sublime is the dominion of the mind over the body, that, for a time, can 
make flesh and nerve impregnable, and string the sinews like steel, so that 
the weak become so mighty. 

The boundaries of the farm, the grove, the wood-lot, passed by her 
dizzily, as she walked on ; and still she went, leaving one familiar object 
after another, slacking not, pausing not, till reddening daylight found her 
many a long mile from all traces of any familiar objects upon the open 

She had often been, with her mistress, to visit some connections, in the 

little village of T , not far from the Ohio River, and knew the road 

well. To go thither, to escape across the Ohio River, were the first hurried 
outlines of her plan of escape ; beyond that she could only hope in God. 

When horses and vehicles began to move along the highway, with that 
alert perception peculiar to a state of excitement, and which seems to be 
a sort of inspiration, she became aware that her headlong pace, and 
distracted air, might bring on her remark and suspicion. She therefore 
put the boy on the ground, and, adjusting her dress and bonnet, she 
walked on at as rapid a pace as she thought consistent with the preservation 
of appearances. In her little bundle she had provided a store of cakes 
and apples, which she used as expedients for quickening the speed of the 
child, rolling the apple some yards before them, when the boy would run 
with all his might after it ; and this ruse, often repeated, carried them over 
many a half-mile. 

After a while, they came to a thick patch of woodland, through which 
murmured a clear brook. As the child complained of hunger and thirst, 
she climbed over the fence with him ; and, sitting down behind a large 
rock which concealed them from the road, she gave him a breakfast out of 
her little package. The boy wondered and grieved that she could not eat; 
and when, putting his arms round her neck, he tried to wedge some of 
his cake into her mouth, it seemed to her that the rising in her throat 
would choke her. 

" No, no, Harry, darling ! mother can't eat till you are safe ! We must 
go on — on — till we come to the river ! " And she hurried again into the 
road, and again constrained herself to walk regularly and composedly 

She was many miles past any neighbourhood where she was personally 
known. If she should chance to meet any who knew her, she reflected 
that the well-known kindness of the family would be of itself a blind to 
susp'"cion, as making it an unlikely supposition that she could be a fugitive. 
As she was also so white as not to be known as of coloured lineage without 
a critical survey, and her child was white also, it was much easier for her 
to pass on unsuspected. 

On this presumption, she stopped at noon at a neat farmhouse, to rest 
herself, and buy some dinner for her child and self; for, as the danger 
decreased with the distance, the supernatural tension of the nervous system 
lessened, and she found herself both weary and hungry. 

The good woman, kindly and gossiping, seemed rather pleased than 


otherwise with having somebody come in to talk with; and accepted, with- 
out examination, EHza's statement, that she " was going on a httle piece to 
spend a week with her friends " — all which she hoped in her heart might 
prove strictly true. 

An hour before sunset, she entered the village of T , by the Ohio 

River, weary and footsore, but still strong in heart. Her first glance was 
at the river, which lay, like Jordan, between her and the Canaan of liberty 
on the other side. 

It was now early spring, and the river was swollen and turbulent ; great 
cakes of floating ice were swinging heavily to and fro in the turbid waters. 
Owing to the peculiar form of the shore on the Kentucky side, the land 
bending far out into the water, the ice had been lodged and detained in 
great quantities, and the narrow channel which swept round the bend was 
full of ice, piled one cake over another, thus forming a temporary barrier 
to the descending ice, which lodged, and formed a great undulating 
raft, filling up the whole river, and extending almost to the Kentucky 

Eliza stood for a moment, contemplating this unfavourable aspect of 
things, which she saw at once must prevent the usual ferry-boat from 
running, and then turned into a small public-house on the bank, to make 
a few inquiries. 

The hostess, who was busy in various fizzing and stewing operations, 
over the fire, preparatory to the evening meal, stopped, with a fork in her 
hand, as Eliza's sweet and plaintive voice arrested her. 

" What is it ? " she said. 

" Isn't there a ferry or boat that takes people over to B y, now ? " 

she said. 

" No, indeed ! " said the woman ; " the boa,ts has stopped running." 

Eliza's look of dismay and disappointment struck the woman, and she 
said, inquiringly : 

" Maybe you 're wanting to get over? — anybody sick? Ye seem mighty 
anxious ! " 

" I 've got a child that 's very dangerous," said Eliza. " I never heard 
of it till last night, and I 've walked quite a piece to-day, in hopes to get 
to the ferry." 

"Well, now, that's onlucky," said the woman, whose motherly sym- 
pathies were much aroused ; " I 'm really consarned for ye. Solomon ! " 
she called, from the window, towards a small back building. A man in 
leather apron and very dirty hands appeared at the door. 

" I say, Sol," said the woman, " is that ar man going to tote them bar'ls 
over to-night ? " 

" He said he should try, if 't was any way prudent," said the man. 

" There 's a man a piece down here, that 's going over with some truck 
this evening, if he durs' to ; he '11 be in here to supper to-night, so you 'd 
better set down and wait. That's a sweet little fellow," added the woman, 
oifering him a cake. 

But the child, wholly exhausted, cried with weariness. 

" Poor fellow ! he isn't used to walking, and I 've hurried him on so,'* 
said Eliza. 

" Well, take him into this room," said the woman, opening into a small 
bedroom, where stood a comfortable bed. Eliza laid the weary boy upon 
it, and held his hands in hers till he was fast asleep. For her there was 
no rest. As a fire in her bones, the thought of the pursuer urged her on ; 


and she gazed with longing eyes on the sullen, surging waters that lay 
between her and liberty. 

Here we must take our leave of her for the present, to follow the course 
of her pursuers. 

Though Mrs. Shelby had promised that the dinner should be hurried 
on table, yet it was soon seen, as the thing has often been seen before^ 
that it required more than one to make a bargain. So, although the order 
was fairly given out in Haley's hearing, and carried to Aunt Chloe by at 
least half a dozen juvenile messengers, that dignitary only gave certain- 
very gruff snorts, and tosses of her head, and went on with every operation 
in an unusually leisurely and circumstantial manner. 

For some singular reason, an impression seemed to reign among the 
servants generally that missis would not be particularly disobliged by 
delay ; and it was wonderful what a number of counter accidents occurred 
constantly, to retard the course of things. One luckless wight contrived 
to upset the gravy ; and then gravy had to be got up de novo, with due 
care and formality. Aunt Chloe v/atching and stirring with dogged precision, 
answering shortly, to all suggestions of haste, that she " warn't a-going to 
have raw gravy on the table, to help nobody's catchings." One tumbled 
down with the water, and had to go to the spring for more ; and another 
precipitated the butter into the path of events ; and there was, from time 
to time, giggling news brought into the kitchen that " Mas'r Haley v>'as 
mighty oneasy, and that he couldn't sit in his cheer no ways, but was 
a-walkin' and stalkin' to the winders, and through the porch." 

"Sarves him right!" said Aunt Chloe indignantly. "He'll get wus 
nor oneasy, one of these days, if he don't mend his ways. His master '11 
be sending for him, and then see how he '11 look ! " 

" He '11 go to torment, and no mistake," said little Jake. 

"He deserves it!" said Aunt Chloe, grimly; "he's broke a many, 
many, many hearts ! — I tell ye all ! " she said, stoping, with a fork up- 
lifted in her hands, " it 's like what Mas'r George reads in Ravelations — 
souls a callin', under the altar ! and a callin' on the Lord for vengeance on 
sich ! — and by-and-by the Lord he '11 hear 'em — so he will !" 

Aunt Chloe, who was much revered in the kitchen, was listened to with 
open mouth ; and, the dinner being now fairly sent in, the whole kitchen 
was at leisure to gossip with her, and to listen to her remarks. 

" Sich '11 be burnt up for ever, and no mistake ; won't ther ?" said Andy. 

" 1 'd be glad to see it, I '11 be boun'," said little Jake. 

"Chil'en I" said a voice that made them all start. It was Uncle Tom> 
who had come in, and stood listening to the conversation at the door. 

" Chil'en," he said, " I 'm afeared you don't know what ye 're sayin'. 
Forever is z. dre'/td word, chil'en; it's awful to think on't. You oughtenter 
wish that ar to any human crittur." 

" We wouldn't to anybody but the soul-drivers," said Andy ; " nobody 
can help wishing it to them, they's so awful wicked." 

"Don't natur herself kinder cry out on 'em?" said Aunt Chloe. 
" Don't dey tear der suckin' baby right off his mother's breast, and sell 
him ? And der little children as is crying and holding on by her clothes 
— don't dey pull 'em off and sells 'em ? Don't dey tear wife and husband 
apart," said Aunt Chloe, beginning to cry, " when it 's jest takin' the very 
life on 'em ? — and all the while does they feel one bit — don't dey drink 
and smoke, and take it uncommon easy I Lor', if the devil don't get 


them, what's he good for?" And Aunt Chloe covered her face with her 
checked apron, and began to sob in good earnest. 

" Pray for them that spitefully use you, the good book says," said Tom. 

" Pray for 'em !" said Aunt Chloe ; " Lor', it 's too tough ! I can't pray 
for 'em." 

"It's nature, Chloe, and natur's strong," said Tom; "but the Lord's 
grace is stronger. Besides, you oughter think what an awful state a poor 
crittur's soul 's in that '11 do them ar things — you oughter thank God that 
you an't like him, Chloe. I 'm sure 1 'd rather be sold, ten thousand 
times over, than to have all that ar poor crittur's got to answer for." 

" So 'd I, a heap !" said Jake. " Lor, shouldnH we cotch it, Andy?" 

Andy shrugged his shoulders, and gave an acquiescent whistle. 

"I'm glad mas'r didn't go off this morning, as he looked to," said 
Tom ; " that ar hurt me more than sellen', it did. Mebbe, it might have 
been natural for him, but 't would come desp't hard on me, as has known 
him from a baby ; but I 've seen mas'r, and I begin to feel sort o' recon- 
ciled to the Lord's will now. Mas'r couldn't help hisself ; he did right, 
but I 'm feared things will be kinder goin' to rack, when I 'm gone. Mas'r 
can't be spected to be a-pryin' round everywhar, as I 've done, a keepen' 
up all the ends. The boys all means well, but they's powerful car'less. 
That ar troubles me." 

The bell here rang, and Tom was summoned to the parlour. 

" Tom," said his master kindly, " I want you to notice that I give this 
gentleman bonds to forfeit a thousand dollars if you are not on the spot 
when he wants you ; he 's going to-day to look after his other business, 
and you can have the day to yourself. Go anywhere you like, boy." 

"Thank you, mas'r," said Tom. 

"And mind yerself," said the trader, "and don't come it over your 
master with any o' yer nigger tricks ; " for I '11 take every cent out of him, 
if you an't thar. If he'd hear to me, he wouldn't trust any on ye — 
slippery as eels !" 

"Mas'r," said Tom — and he stood very straight — "I was jist eight 
years old when ole missus put you into my arms, and you wasn't a year 
old. ' Thar,' says she, ' Tom, that 's to be your young mas'r ; take good 
care on him,' says she. And now I jist ask you, mas'r, have I ever broke 
word to you, or gone contrary to you, 'specially since I was a Christian?" 

Mr. Shelby was fairly overcome, and the tears rose to his eyes. 

" My good boy," said he, " the Lord knows you say but the truth ; and 
if I was able to help it, all the world shouldn't buy you." 

" And sure as I am a Christian woman," said Mrs. Shelby, " you shall be 
redeemed as soon as I can any way bring together means. Sir," she 
said to Haley, "take good account of who you sell him to, and let me 

" Lor', yes, for that matter," said the trader, " I may bring him up in a 
year, not much the wuss for wear, and trade him back." 

" I '11 trade with you, then, and make it for your advantage," said Mrs. 

"Of course," said the trader, "all's equal with me; li'ves trade 'em up 
as down, so I does a good business. All I want is a livin', you know, 
ma'am ; that 's all any on us wants, I s'pose." 

Mr. and Mrs. Shelby both felt annoyed and degraded by the familiar 
impudence of the trader, and yet both saw the absolute necessity of 
putting a constraint on their feelings. The more hopelessly sordid and 


insensible he appeared, the greater became Mrs. Shelby's dread of his 
succeeding in recapturing Eliza and her child, and of course the greater 
her motive for detaining him by every female artifice. She therefore 
graciously smiled, assented, chatted famiUarly, and did all she could to 
make time pass imperceptibly. 

At two o'clock Sam and Andy brought the horses up to the posts, 
apparently greatly refreshed and invigorated by the scamper of the morning. 

Sam was there, new oiled from dinner, with an abundance of zealous 
and ready officiousness. As Haley approached he was boasting, in 
flourishing style, to Andy, of the evident and eminent success of the 
operation, now that he had "fa'rly come to it." 

" Your master, I s'pose, don't keep no dogs ? " said Haley, thoughtfully, 
as he prepared to mount. 

"Heaps on 'em," said Sam triumphantly; "thar's Bruno — he's a 
roarer ! and, besides that, 'bout every nigger on us keeps a pup of some 
natur' or uther." 

"Poh!" said Haley — and he said something else, too, with regard to 
the said dogs, at which Sam muttered — 

" I don't see no use cussin' on 'em, no way." 

" But your master don't keep no dogs (I pretty much know he don't) 
for trackin' out niggers?" 

Sam knew exactly what he meant, but he kept on a look of earnest and 
desperate simplicity. 

"Our dogs all smells round considerable sharp. I spect they's the 
kind, though they han't never had no practice. They 's far dogs, though, 
at most anything, if you 'd get 'em started. Here, Bruno," he called, 
whistling to the lumbering Newfoundland, who came pitching tumultuously 
toward them. 

"You go hang !" said Haley, getting up. "Come, tumble up, now." 

Sam tumbled up accordingly, dexterously contriving to tickle Andy as 
he did so, which occasioned Andy to split out into a laugh, greatly to 
Haley's indignation, who made a cut at him with his riding-whip. 

" I 's 'tonished at yer, Andy," said Sam, with awful gravity. " This 
yer's a seris business, Andy. Yer mustn't be a makin' game. This yer 
an't no way to help mas'r." 

" I shall take the straight road to the river," said Haley decidedly, after 
they had come to the boundaries of the estate. " I know the way of all 
of 'em — they makes tracks for the underground." 

"Sartin," said Sam, "dat's de idee. Mas'r Haley hits de thing right in 
de middle. Now, der's two roads to de river — de dirt road and der pike 
— which mas'r mean to take ? " 

Andy looked up innocently at Sam, surprised at hearing this new 
geographical fact, but instantly confirmed what he said by a vehement 

" 'Cause," said Sam, " I 'd rather be 'clined to 'magine that Lizy 'd take 
de dirt road, bein' it's the least travelled." 

Haley, notwithstanding that he was a very old bird, and naturally 
inclined to be suspicious of chaff, was rather brought up by this view of 
the case. 

"If yer warn't both on yer such cussed liars, now!" said he con- 
templatively, as he pondered a moment. 

The pensive, reflective tone in Avhich this was spoken appeared to amuse 
Andy prodigiously, and he drew a little behind and shook so as apparently 




to run a great risk of falling off his horse, while Sam's face was immovably 
composed into the most doleful gravity. 

"Course," said Sam, "mas'r can do as he'd ruther; go de straight 
road, if mas'r think best — it 's all one to us. Now, when I study 'pon it, 
I think de straight road de best deridedlyP 

" She would naturally go a lonesome way," said Haley, thinking aloud, 
not minding Sam's remark. 

" Dar an't no sayin'," said Sam ; " gals is peculiar. They never does 
nothin' ye thinks they will; mose gen'Uy the contrar. Gals is nat'Uy 
made contrary; and so, if you thinks they've gone the one road, it is 
sartin you 'd better go t'other, and then you '11 be sure to find 'em. Now, 
my private 'pinion is, Lizy took der dirt road ; so I think we 'd better take 
de straight one." 

This profound generic view of the female sex did not seem to dispose 
Haley particularly to the straight road ; and he announced decidedly that 
he should go the other, and asked Sam when they should come to it. 

" A little piece ahead," said Sam, giving a wink to Andy with the eye 
which was on Andy's side of the head ; and he added gravely, " but I 've 
studied on de matter, and I 'm quite clar we ought not to go dat ar way. 
I nebber been over it no way. It 's despit lonesome, and we might lose 
our way — whar we 'd come to, de Lord only knows." 

" Nevertheless," said Haley, " I shall go that way." 

"Now I think on't, I think I hearn 'em tell that dat ar road was all 
fenced up and down by der creek, and thar ; an't it, Andy ? " 

Andy wasn't certain, he 'd only " hearn tell " about that road, but never 
been over it. In short, he was strictly non-committal. 

Haley, accustomed to strike the balance of probabilities between lies of 
greater or lesser magnitude, thought that it lay in favour of the dirt road 
aforesaid. The mention of the thing he thought he perceived was 
involuntary on Sam's part at first ; and his confused attempts to dissuade 
him he set down to a desperate lying, on second thoughts, as being 
unwilling to implicate Eliza. When, therefore, Sam indicated the road, 
Haley plunged briskly into it, followed by Sam and Andy. 

Now the road, in fact, was an old one, that had formerly been a 
thoroughfare to the river, but abandoned for many years, after the laying 
of the new pike. It was open for about an hour's ride, and after that it 
was cut across by various farms and fences. Sam knew this fact perfectly 
well ; indeed, the road had been so long closed up, that Andy had never 
heard of it. He therefore rode along with an air of dutiful submission, 
only groaning and vociferating occasionally that 't was " desp't rough, and 
bad for Jerry's foot." 

" Now, I jest give yer warning ! " said Haley. " I know yer ; yer won't 
get me to turn off this yer road, with all yer fussin' — so you shet up ! " 

" Mas'r will go his own way ! " said Sam, with rueful submission, at the 
same time winking most portentously to Andy, whose delight was now 
very near the explosive point. 

Sam was in wonderful spirits, professed to keep a very brisk look-out — 
at one time exclaiming that he saw a " gal's bonnet " on the top of some 
distant eminence, or calling to Andy " if that thar wasn't Lizy down in the 
hollow " — always making these exclamations in some rough or craggy part 
of the road, where the sudden quickening of speed was a special incon- 
venience to all parties concerned, and thus keeping Haley in a state of 
constant commotion. 


After riding about an hour in this way, the whole party made a 
precipitate and tumultuous descent into a barn-yard belonging to a large 
farming establishment. Not a soul was in sight, all the hands being 
employed in the fields ; but, as the barn stood conspicuously and plainly 
square across the road, it was evident that their journey in that direction 
had reached a decided finale. 

" Wan't dat ar what I telled mas'r ? " said Sam, with an air of injured 
innocence. " How does strange gentlemen spect to know more about a 
country dan de natives born and raised ? " 

"You rascal," said Haley; "you knew all about this ! " 

"Didn't I tell yer I know'd, and yer wouldn't believe me? I tell'd 
mas'r 't was all shet up, and fenced up, and I didn't spect we could get 
through — Andy heard me." 

It was all too true to be disputed, and the unlucky man had to pocket 
his wrath with the best grace he was able, and all three faced to the right- 
about, and took up their line of march for the highway. 

In consequence of all the various delays, it was about three-quarters of 
an hour after Eliza had laid her child to sleep in the village tavern that 
the party came riding into the same place. Eliza was standing by the 
window, looking out in another direction, when Sam's quick eye caught a 
glimpse of her. Haley and Andy were two yards behind. At this crisis 
Sam contrived to have his hat blown off, and uttered a loud and character- 
istic ejaculation, which startled her at once ; she drew suddenly back ; the 
whole train swept by the window, round to the front door. 

A thousand lives seemed to be concentrated in that one moment to 
Eliza. Her room opened by a side door to the river. She caught her 
child, and sprang down the steps towards it. The trader caught a full 
glimpse of her, just as she was disappearing down the bank ; and throwing 
himself from his horse, and calling loudly on Sam and Andy, he was after 
her like a hound after a deer. In that dizzy moment her feet to her scarce 
seemed to touch the ground, and a moment brought her to the water's 
edge. Right on behind they came; and, nerved with strength such as 
God gives only to the desperate, with one wild cry and flying leap, she 
vaulted sheer over the turbid current by the shore, on to the raft of ice 
beyond. It was a desperate leap — impossible to anything but madness 
and despair ; and Haley, Sam, and Andy instinctively cried out and lifted 
up their hands as she did it. 

The huge green fragment of ice on which she alighted pitched and 
creaked as her weight came on it, but she stayed there not a moment. 
With wild cries and desperate energy she leaped to another and still 
another cake — stumbling — leaping — slipping — springing upwards again ! 
Her shoes are gone — her stockings cut from her feet — while blood marked 
every step ; but she saw nothing, felt nothing, till dimly, as in a dream, she 
saw the Ohio side, and a man helping her up the bank. 

" Yer a brave gal, now, whoever ye are ! " said the man, with an oath. 

Eliza recognised the voice and face of a man who owned a farm not far 
from her old home. 

" Oh, Mr. Symmes ! save me — do save me — do hide me ! " said Eliza. 

" Why, what 's this ? " said the man. " Why, if 't an't Shelby's gal ! " 

" My child ! — this boy — he 'd sold him. There is his mas'r," said she, 
pointing to the Kentucky shore. " Oh, Mr. Symmes ! you 've got a little 

" So I have," said the man, as he roughly but kindly drew her up the 


steep bank. " Besides, you 're a right brave girl. I like grit wherever I 
see it." 

When they had gained the top of the bank, the man paused. 

" I 'd be glad to do something for ye," said he ; " but then there 's 
nowhar I could take ye. The best I can do is to tell ye to go thar" said 
he, pointing to a large white house which stood by itself, off the main 
street of the village. " Go thar ; they 're kind folks. Thar 's no kind o* 
danger but they '11 help you — they 're up to all that sort o' thing." 

" The Lord bless you ! " said Eliza earnestly. 

"No 'casion, no 'casion in the world," said the man. "What I've 
done's of no 'count." 

" And, oh, surely, sir, you won't tell any one ! " 

" Go to thunder, gal. What do you take a feller for ? In course not," 
said the man. " Come, now, go along like a likely sensible gal, as you 
are. You 've arnt your liberty, and you shall have it, for all me." 

The woman folded her child to her bosom, and walked firmly and 
swiftly away. The man stood and looked after her. 

" Shelby, now, mebbe won't think this yer the most neighbourly thing 
in the world ; but what 's a feller to do ? If he catches one of my gals in 
the same fix, he 's welcome to pay back. Somehow, I never could see no 
kind o' critter a strivin' and pantin', and trying to clar theirselves, with the 
dogs arter 'em, and go agin' 'em. Besides, I don't see no kind of 'casion 
for me to be hunter and catcher for other folks, neither." 

So spoke this poor, heathenish Kentuckian, who had not been instructed 
in his constitutional relations, and consequently was betrayed into acting 
in a sort of Christianized manner, which, if he had been better situated 
and more enlightened, he would not have been left to do. 

Haley had stood a perfectly amazed spectator of the scene, till Eliza 
had disappeared up the bank, when he turned a blank, inquiring look on 
Sam and Andy. 

" That ar was a tol'able fair stroke of business," said Sam. 

" The gal 's got seven devils in her, I believe," said Haley. " How like 
a wild cat she jumped ! " 

" Wal, now," said Sam, scratching his head, " I hope mas'r '11 'scuse us 
tryin' dat ar road. Don't think I feel spry enough for dat ar, no way ! " 
and Sam gave a hoarse chuckle. 

" You laugh ! " said the trader, with a growl. 

" Lord bless you, mas'r, I couldn't help it, now," said Sam, giving way 
to the long pent-up delight of his soul. " She looked so curis, a leapin' 
and springin' — ice a-crackin' — and only to hear her — plump ! ker chunk ! 
ker splash ! Spring ! Lord, how she goes it ! " and Sam and Andy 
laughed till the tears rolled down their cheeks. 

" I '11 make ye laugh t 'other side yer mouths ! " said the trader, laying 
about their heads with his riding-whip. 

Both ducked, and ran shouting up the bank, and were on their horses 
before he was up. 

" Good evening, mas'r ! " said Sam, with much gravity. " I berry much 
spect missis be anxious 'bout Jerry. Mas'r Haley won't want us no longer. 
Missis wouldn't hear of our ridin' the critturs over Lizy's bridge to-night " ; 
and, with a facetious poke into Andy's ribs, he started off, followed by the 
latter, at full speed — their shouts of laughter coming faintly on the wind. 



Eliza's escape. 

Eliza made her desperate retreat across the river just in the dusk of 
twihght. The grey mist of evening, rising slowly from the river, enveloped 
her as she disappeared up the bank, and the swollen current and floun- 
dering masses of ice presented a hopeless barrier between her and her 
pursuer. Haley therefore slowly and discontentedly returned to the little 
tavern, to ponder further what was to be done. The woman opened to 
him the door of a little parlour, covered with a rag carpet, where stood a 
table with a very shining black oil-cloth, sundry lank, high-backed wood 
chairs, with some plaster images in resplendent colours on the mantel- 
shelf, above a very dimly-smoking grate ; a long hard-wood settle extended 
its uneasy length by the chimney, and here Haley sat him down to medi- 
tate on the instability of human hopes and happiness in general. 

" What did I want with the little cuss, now," he said to himself, " that I 
should have got myself treed like a coon, as I am this yer way?" and 
Haley relieved himself by repeating over a not very select Ktany of 
imprecations on himself, which, though there was the best possible reason 
to consider them as true, we shall, as a matter of taste, omit. 

He was startled by the loud and dissonant voice of a man Avho was 
apparently dismounting at the door. He hurried to the window. 

" By the Lord ! if this yer an't the nearest, now, to what I 've heard 
folks call Providence," said Haley. " I do b'lieve that ar's Tom Loker." 

Haley hastened out. Standing by the bar, in the corner of the room, 
was a brawny, muscular man, full six feet in height, and broad in propor- 
tion. He was dressed in a coat of buffalo-skin, made with the hair 
outward, which gave him a shaggy and fierce appearance, perfectly in 
keeping with the whole air of his physiognomy. In the head and face 
every organ and lineament expressive of brutal and unhesitating violence 
was in a state of the highest possible development. Indeed, could our 
readers fancy a bull-dog come into man's estate, and walking about in a 
hat and coat, they would have no unapt idea of the general style and 
effect of his physique. He was accompanied by a travelling companion, 
in many respects an exact contrast to himself He was short and slender, 
lithe and cat-like in his motions, and had a peering, mousing expression 
about his keen black eyes, with which every feature of his face seemed 
sharpened into sympathy. His thin, long nose, ran out as if it was eager 
to bore into the nature of things in general ; his sleek, thin black hair 
was stuck eagerly forward, and all his motions and evolutions expressed a 
dry, cautious acuteness. The great big man poured out a big tumbler half 
full of raw spirits, and gulped it down without a word. The little man 
stood tip-toe, and putting his head first to one side and then to the other, 
and snuffing considerately in the directions of the various bottles, ordered 
at last a mint julep, in a thin and quivering voice, and with an air of great 
circumspection. When poured out, he took it and looked at it with 
a sharp, complacent air, like a man who thinks he has done about the 
right thing, and hit the nail on the head, and proceeded to dispose of it 
in short and well-advised sips. 

"Wal, now, who'd a thought this yer luck 'ad come to me? Why, 


Loker, how are ye ? " said Haley, coming forvs^ard, and extending his hand 
to the big man. 

" The devil ! " was the civil reply. " What brought you here, Haley ? " 

The mousing man, who bore the name of Marks, instantly stopped his 
sipping, and, poking his head forward, looked shrewdly on our new 
acquaintance, as a cat sometimes looks at a moving dry leaf, or some 
other possible object of pursuit. 

" I say, Tom, this yer 's the luckiest thing in the world. I 'm in a devil 
of a hobble, and you must help me out." 

" Ugh ! aw ! like enough ! " grunted his complacent acquaintance. " A 
body may be pretty sure of that, when you ''re glad to see 'em ; something 
to be made off of 'em. What 's the blow now ? " 

" You 've got a friend here ? " said Haley, looking doubtfully at Marks 
— " partner, perhaps ? " 

" Yes, I have. Here, Marks ! here 's that ar feller that I was in with in 

"Shall be pleased with his acquaintance," said Marks, thrusting out a 
long thin hand, like a raven's claw. " Mr. Haley, I believe ? " 

" The same, sir," said Haley. " And now, gentlemen, seein' as we 've 
met so happily, I think I '11 stand up to a small matter of a treat in this 
here parlour. So, now, old coon," said he to the man at the bar, "get 
us hot water, and sugar, and cigars, and plenty of the 7-eal shiff, and we '11 
have a blow out." 

Behold, then, the candles lighted, the fire stimulated to the burning 
point in the grate, and our three worthies seated round a table, well 
spread with all the accessories to good-fellowship enumerated before. 

Haley began a pathetic recital of his peculiar troubles. Loker shut up 
his mouth, and listened to him with gruff and surly attention. Marks, 
who was anxiously and with much fidgetting compounding a tumbler of 
punch to his own peculiar taste, occasionally looked up from his employ- 
ment, and, poking his sharp nose and chin almost into Haley's face, gave 
the most earnest heed to the whole narrative. The conclusion of it 
appeared to amuse him extremely, for he shook his shoulders and sides in 
silence, and perked up his thin lips with an air of great internal en- 

"So, then, ye 're fairly sewed up, an't ye?" he said. "He! he! he! 
It 's neatly done, too." 

" This yer young-un business makes lots of trouble in the trade," said 
Haley dolefully. 

" If we could get a breed of gals that didn't care, now, for their young 
uns," said Marks, " tell ye, I think 't would be 'bout the greatest mod'rn 
improvement I knows on" — and Marks patronised his joke by a quiet 
introductory sniggle. 

"Jes' so," said Haley; "I never couldn't see into it. Young uns is 
heaps of trouble to 'em — one would think, now, they 'd be glad to get 
clar on 'em ; but they aren't. And the more trouble a young un is, and 
the more good for nothing, as a gen'ral thing, the tighter they sticks to 

"Wal, Mr. Haley," said Marks, "jest pass the hot water. Yes, sir: 
you say jest what I feel and all'us have. Now, I bought a gal once, when 
I was in the trade — a tight, likely wench she was, too, and quite consider- 
able smart — and she had a young un that was mis'able sickly ; it had a 
crooked back, or something or other ; and I jest gin't away to a man that 


thought he'd take his chance raisin' on't, being it didn't cost nothin' — 
never thought, yer know, of the gal's takin' on about it — but, Lord, yer 
oughter see how she went on ! Why, re'Uy, she did seem to me to valley 
the child more 'cause 'twas sickly and cross, and plagued her; and she 
warn't making b'lieve, neither — cried about it, she did, and lopped rounds 
as if she'd lost every friend she had. It re'lly was droll to think on't.. 
Lord, there an't no end to women's notions." 

"Wal, jest so with me," said Haley. "Last summer, down on Red 
River, I got a gal traded off on me, with a likely-lookin' child enough, and 
his eyes looked as bright as yourn ; but, come to look, I found him stone 
bHnd. Fact — he was stone blind. Wal, ye see, I thought there warn't 
no harm in my jest passing him along, and not sayin' nothin' ; and I 'd 
got him nicely swapped off for a keg of whiskey; but come to get him 
av/ay from the gal, she was jest like a tiger. So 't was before we started, 
and I hadn't got my gang chained up, so what should she do but ups on a 
cotton-bale, like a cat, ketches a knife from one of the deck hands, and> 
I tell ye, she made all fly for a minnit, till she saw 't wan't no use ; and 
she jest turns round and pitches head first, young un and all, into the 
river — went down plump, and never ris." 

" Bah ! " said Tom Loker, who had listened to these stories with ill- 
repressed disgust. " Shifless, both on ye ! My gals don't cut up no such 
shines, I tell ye ! " 

" Indeed ! how do you help it ? " said Marks briskly. 

" Help it ? why, I buys a gal, and if she 's got a young un to be sold^ 
I jest walks up and puts my fist to her face, and says, ' Look here, now ; 
if you give me one word out of your head, I '11 smash yer face in. I 
won't hear one word — not the beginning of a word.' I says to 'em, ' This 
yer young un's mine, and not yourn, and you 've no kind o' business with 
it. I'm going to sell it, first chance; mind you don't cut up none 
o' yer shines about it, or I '11 make ye wish ye 'd never been born.' I tell 
ye, they sees it ain't no play when I gets hold. I makes 'em as whist as 

fishes ; and if one on 'em begins and gives a yelp, why " and Mr. 

Loker brought down his fist with a thump that fully explained the hiatus. 

"That ar's what we may call emphasis,'' said Marks, p'~'^:ing Haley 
in the side, and going into another small giggle. " An't Toiii peculiar ? 
He ! he ! he ! I say, Tom, I 'spect you make 'em understand, for all 
niggers' heads is Avoolly. They don't never have no doubt o' your 
meaning, Tom. If you an't the devil, Tom, you 's his twin brother, I 'li 
say that for ye." 

Tom received the compliment with becoming modesty, and began to 
look as affable as was consistent, as John Bunyan says, " with his doggish 

Haley, who had been imbibing very freely of the staple of the evening, 
began to feel a sensible elevation and enlargement of his moral faculties — 
a phenomenon not unusual with gentlemen of a serious and reflective 
turn, under similar circumstances. 

'\iVal, now, Tom," he said, "ye reily is too bad, as I al'ays have told 
ye. Ye know, Tom, you and I used to talk over these yer matters down- 
in Natchez, and I used to prove to ye that we made full as much, and was- 
as well off for this yer world, by treatin' on 'em well, besides keepin' a: 
better chance for comin' in the kingdom at last, when wust comes to wust,. 
and thar an't nothing else left to get, ye know." 

" Boh ! " said Tom, " don't I know ? Don't make me too sick with any 


yer stuff — my stomach is a leetle riled now " ; and Tom drank half a glass 
of raw brandy. 

"I say," said Haley, and leaning back in his chair and gesturing 
impressively, " I '11 say this, now, I al'ays meant to drive my trade so as to 
make money on 't, fust and foremost^ as much as any man ; but, then, 
trade an't everything, and money an't everything, 'cause we 's all got souls. 
I don't care, now, who hears me say it — and I think a cussed sight on it, 
so I may as well come out with it. I b'lieve in religion, and one of these 
days, when I 've got matters tight and snug, I calculate to 'tend to my 
soul ind them ar matters ; and so what 's the use of doing any more 
wickedness than's reily necessary? — it don't seem to me it's 't all 

"'Tend to yer soul!" repeated Tom contemptuously; "take a bright 
look-out to find a soul in you — save yourself any care on that score. If 
the devil sifts you through a hair-sieve, he won't find one." 

" Why, Tom, you're cross," said Haley. " Why can't ye take it pleasant, 
now, when a feller 's talking for your good ! " 

" Stop that ar jaw o' yourn," there, said Tom gruffly. " I can stand most 
any talk o' yourn, but your pious talk — that kills me right up. After all, 
what's the odds between me and you? 'Tan't that you care one bit 
more, or have a bit more feelin' — it 's clean, sheer, dog meanness, wanting 
to cheat the devil and save your own skin ; don't I see through it ? And 
your ' getting religion,' as you call it, arter all, is too p'isin mean for any 
crittur ; run up a bill with the devil all your life, and then sneak out when 
pay-time comes ! Boh ! " 

"Come, come, gentlemen, I say; this isn't business," said Marks. 
" There 's different ways, you know, of looking at all subjects. Mr. Haley 
is a very nice man, no doubt, and has his own conscience ; and, Tom, you 
have your ways, and very good ones, too, Tom; but quarrelling, you 
know, won't answer no kind of purpose. Let's go to business. Now, 
Mr. Haley, what is it ? You want us to undertake to catch this yer gal ? " 

" The gal 's no matter of mine — she 's Shelby's ; it 's only the boy. I 
was a fool for buying the monkey ! " 

" You 're generally a fool ! " said Tom gruffly. 

" Come, now, Loker, none of your huffs," said Marks, licking his lips. 
"You see, Mr. Haley's aputtin' us in a way of a good job, I reckon; just 
hold still — tiiese yer arrangements is my forte. This yer gal, Mr. Haley, 
how is she ? what is she ? " 

" Wal ! white and handsome — ^well brought up. I 'd a gi'n Shelby eight 
hundred or a thousand, and then made well on her." 

" White and handsome — well brought up ! " said Marks, his sharp eyes, 
nose, and mouth all alive with enterprise. "Look here, now, Loker, a 
beautiful opening. We'll do a business here on our own account; we 
does the catchin' ; the boy, of course, goes to Mr. Haley — we takes the 
gal to Orleans to speculate on. An't it beautiful ? " 

Tom, whose great heavy mouth had stood ajar during this communi- 
cation, now suddenly snapped it together, as a big dog closes on a piece 
of meat, and seemed to be digesting the idea at his leisure. 

"Ye see," said Marks to Haley, stirring his punch as he did so, "ye 
see, we has justices convenient at all p'ints along shore, that does up 
any little jobs in our line quite reasonable. Tom, he does the knockin' 
down and that ar; and I come in all dressed up — shining boots — every- 
thing first chop, when the swearing 's to be done. You oughter see, now," 


said Marks, in a glow of professional pride, " how I can tone it off. One 
day, I 'm Mr. Twickem, from New Orleans ; 'nother day, I 'm just come 
from my plantation on Pearl River, where I works seven hundred niggers ; 
then, again, I come out a distant relation of Henry Clay, or some old cock 
in Kentuck. Talents is different, you know. Now, Tom 's a roarer when 
there 's any thumping or fighting to be done ; but at lying he an't good, 
Tom an't — ye see, it don't come natural to him ; but, Lord, if thar 's a 
feller in the country that can swear to anything and everything, and put in 
all the circumstances and flourishes with a longer face, and carry 't through 
better 'n I can, why I 'd like to see him, that 's all ! I b'lieve, my heart, I 
could get along and snake through, even if justices were more particular 
than they is. Sometimes I rather wish they was more particular ; 'twould 
be a heap more relishing if they was — more fun, yer know." 

Tom Loker, who, as we have made it appear, was a man of slow 
thoughts and movements, here interrupted Marks by bringing his heavy 
fist down on the table, so as to make all ring again, "It'll do/" he said. 

" Lord bless ye, Tom, ye needn't break all the glasses ! " said Marks ; 
** save your fist for time o' need." 

"But, gentlemen, an't I to come in for a share of the profit?" said 

"An't it enough we catch the boy for ye?" said Loker. "What do 
ye want?" 

" Wal," said Haley, " if I gives you the job, it 's worth something — say 
ten per cent, on the profits, expenses paid." 

" Now," said Loker, with a tremendous oath, and striking the table with 
his heavy fist, "don't I know you, Dan Haley? Don't you think to come 
it over me ! Suppose Marks and I have taken up the catchin' trade, jest 
to 'commodate gentlemen like you, and get nothin' for ourselves? Not 
by a long chalk ! we '11 have the gal out and out, and you keep quiet, 
or, ye see, we '11 have both — what 's to hinder ? Han't you showed us the 
game? It's as free to us as you, I hope. If you or Shelby wants to 
chase us, look where the partridges was last year ; if you find them or us, 
you 're quite welcome." 

" Oh, wal, certainly, jest let it go at that," said Haley, alarmed ; " you 
catch the boy for the job. You allers did trade far with me, Tom, and 
was up to yer word." 

" Ye know that," said Tom. " I don't pretend none of your snivelling 
ways, but I won't lie in my 'counts with the devil himself. What I ses 
I '11 do, I will do ; you know that, Dan Haley." 

"Jes' so, jes' so; I said so, Tom," said Haley; "and if you'd only 
promise to have the boy for me in a week, at any point you '11 name, that 's 
all I want." 

" But it an't all I want by a long jump," said Tom. " Ye don't think I 
did business with you, down in Natchez, for nothing, Haley ; I 've learned 
to hold an eel when I catch him. You 've got to fork over fifty dollars, 
flat down, or this child don't start a peg. I know yer." 

"Why, when you have a job in hand that may bring a clean profit 
of somewhere about a thousand or sixteen hundred ? Why, Tom, you 're 
onreasonable ! " said Haley. 

" Yes, and hasn't we business booked for five weeks to come — all we 
can do? And suppose we leaves all, and goes to bushwhacking round 
arter yer young un, and finally doesn't catch the gal — and gals allers is 
the devil to catch — what 's then ? Would you pay us a cent — would you ? 


I think I see you a doin' it — ugh ! No, no ; flap down your fifty. If we 
get the job, and it pays, I '11 hand it back ; if we don't, it 's for our trouble 
— that 's/ar, an't it, Marks ? " 

" Certainly, certainly," said Marks, with a conciliatory tone. " It 's only 
a retaining fee, you see — he ! he ! he ! — we lawyers, you know. Wal, we 
must all keep good-natured — keep easy, yer know. Tom '11 have the boy 
for yer anywhere ye '11 name ; won't ye, Tom ? " 

" If I find the young un, I '11 bring him on to Cincinnati, and leave him 
at Granny Belcher's, on the landing," said Loker. 

Marks had got from his pocket a greasy pocket-book; and taking a 
long paper from thence, he sat down, and fixing his keen black eyes on it, 
began mumbling over its contents : " Barnes — Shelby County — boy Jim, 
three hundred dollars for him, dead or alive. Edwards — Dick and Lucy 
— man and wife, six hundred dollars ; wench Polly and two children — six 
hundred for her or her head — I 'm jest a-runnin' over our business, to see 
if we can take up this yer handily. Loker," he said, after a pause, "we 
must set Adams and Springer on the track of these yer; they've been 
booked some time." 

" They '11 charge too much," said Tom. 

"I'll manage that ar; they's young in the business, and must 'spect 
to work cheap," said Marks, as he continued to read. "There's three on 
'em easy cases, 'cause all you 've got to do is to shoot 'em, or swear they is 
shot ; they couldn't, of course, charge much for that. Them other cases," 
he said, folding the paper, "will bear puttin' off a spell. So now let's 
come to the particulars. Now, Mr. Haley, you saw this yer gal when she 

"To be sure — plain as I see you." 

"And a man helpin' on her up the bank?" said Lcker. 

"To be sure I did." 

"Most likely," said Marks, "she's took in somewhere; but where 's the 
question. Tom, what do you say ? " 

" We must cross the river to-night, no mistake," said Tom. 

"But ther's no boat about," said Marks. "The ice is running awfully^ 
Tom ; an't it dangerous ? " 

"Don'no nothing 'bout that, only it's got to be done," said Tom 

"Dear me," said Marks, fidgetting, "it'll be — I say," he said, walking 
to the window, " it 's dark as a wolf's mouth, and, Tom " 

"The long and short is, you're scared, Marks; but I can't help that, 
you've got to go. Suppose you want to lie by a day or two, till the 
gal 's been carried on the underground line up to Sandusky, or so, before 
you " 

"Oh, no; I an't a grain afraid," said Marks, "only " 

" Only what ? " said Tom. 

"Well, about the boat. Yer see, there an't any boat." 

" I heard the woman say there was one coming along this evening, and 
that a man was going to cross over in it. Neck or nothing, we must 
go with him," said Tom. 

" I s'pose you 've got good dogs," said Haley. 

" First-rate," said Marks. " But what 's the use ? you han't got nothin 
o' hers to smell on." 

"Yes, I have," said Haley triumphantly. "Here's her shawl she left 
on the bed in her hurry ; she left her bonnet, too." 


" That ar 's lucky," said Loker ; " fork over." 

"Though the dogs might damage the gal, if they come on her un- 
awares," said Haley. 

" That ar 's a consideration," said Marks. " Our dogs tore a feller half 
to pieces, once, down in Mobile, 'fore we could get 'em off." 

"Well, ye see, for this sort that's to be sold for their looks, that ar 
won't answer, ye see," said Haley. 

" I do see," said Marks. " Besides, if she 's got took in, 'tan't no go, 
neither. Dogs is no 'count in these yer up States where these critturs gets 
carried; of course, ye can't get their track. They only does down in 
plantations, where niggers, when they runs, has to do their own running, 
and don't get no help." 

" Well," said Loker, who had just stepped out to the bar to make some 
inquiries, " they say the man 's come with the boat ; so, Marks " 

That worthy cast a rueful look at the comfortable quarters he was 
leaving, but slowly rose to obey. After exchanging a few words of further 
arrangement, Haley, with visible reluctance, handed over the fifty dollars 
to Tom, and the worthy trio separated for the night. 

If any of our refined and Christian readers object to the society into 
which this scene introduces them, let us beg them to begin and conquer 
their prejudices in time. The catching business, we beg to remind them, 
is rising to the dignity of a lawful and patriotic profession. If all the 
broad land between the Mississippi and the Pacific becomes one great 
market for bodies and souls, and human property retains the locomotive 
tendencies of this nineteenth century, the trader and catcher may yet be 
among our aristocracy. 

While this scene was going on at the tavern, Sam and Andy, in a state 
of high felicitation, pursued their way home. 

Sam was in the highest possible feather, and expressed his exultation by 
all sorts of supernatural howls and ejaculations, by divers odd motions 
and contortions of his whole system. Sometimes he would sit backward, 
with his face to the horse's tail and sides, and then, with a whoop and a 
summerset, come right side up in his place again, and, drawing on a grave 
face, begin to lecture Andy, in high-sounding tones, for laughing and 
playing the fool. Anon, slapping his sides with his arms, he would burst 
forth in peals of laughter, that made the old voods ring as they passed. 
With all these evolutions, he contrived to keep the horses up to the top of 
their speed, until, between ten and eleven, their heels resounded on the 
gravel at the end of the balcony. Mrs. Shelby flew to the railings. 

" Is that you, Sam ? Where are they ? " 

" Mas'r Haley 's a-restin' at the tavern ; he 's drefful fatigued, missis." 

"And Eliza, Sam?" 

"Wal, she's clar' 'cross Jordan. As a body may say, in the land o* 

" Why, Sam, what do you mean ? " said Mrs. Shelby, breathless and 
almost faint, as the possible meaning of these words came over her. 

"Wal, missis, de Lord he presarves his own. Lizy's done gone over 
the river into 'Hio, as 'markably as if de Lord took her over in a charrit 
of fire and two bosses." 

Sam's vein of piety was always uncommonly fervent in his mistress' 
presence, and he made great capital of Scriptural figures and images. 

"Come up here, Sam," said Mr. Shelby, who had followed on to the 


verandah, "and tell your mistress what she wants. Come, come, Emily," 
said he, passing his arm round her, " you are cold, and all in a shiver ; 
you allow yourself to feel too much." 

" Feel too much ! Am I not a woman — a mother ? Are we not both 
responsible to God for this poor girl ? My God, lay not this sin to our 
charge ! " 

" What sin, Emily ? You see yourself that we have only done what we 
were obliged to." 

" There 's an awful feeling of guilt about it, though," said Mrs. Shelby. 
" I can't reason it away." 

" Here, Andy, you nigger, be alive ! " called Sam, under the verandah ; 
" take these yer bosses to der barn ; don't ye hear mas'r a-callin' ? " and 
Sam soon appeared, palm-leaf in hand, at the door. 

"Now, Sam, tell us distinctly how the matter was," said Mr. Shelby. 
" Where is Eliza, if you know ? " 

"Wal, mas'r, I saw her, with my own eyes, a-crossin' on the floatin' 
ice. She crossed most 'markably : it wasn't no less nor a miracle ; 
and I saw a man help her up the 'Hio side, and then she was lost in 
the dusk." 

"Sam, I think this rather apocryphal — this miracle. Crossing on 
floating ice isn't so easily done," said Mr. Shelby. 

" Easy ! couldn't nobody a done it, widout de Lord. ^Vhy, now," said 
Sam, " 't was jist dis yer way. Mas'r Haley, and me, and Andy, we comes 
up to de little tavern by the river, and I rides a leetle ahead — (I 's so 
zealous to be a cotchin' Lizy, that I couldn't hold in, no vray — ) and when 
I comes by the tavern winder, sure enough there she was, right in plain 
sight, and dey diggin' on behind. Wal, I loses off my hat, and sings out 
nuff to raise the dead. Course, Lizy she bars, and she dodges back, 
when Mas'r Haley he goes past the door ; and then, I tell ye, she clared 
out de side door ; she went down de river bank. Mas'r Haley he seed 
her, and yelled out ; and him, and me, and Andy, we took arter. Down 
she come to the river, and thar was the current running ten feet wide 
by the shore, and over t'other side ice a sawin' and a jiggling up and 
down, kinder as 't were a great island. We come right behind her, and I 
thought, my soul, he d got her sure enough — when she gin such a screech 
as I never hearn, and thar she was, clar over t'other side the current, on 
the ice, and then on she went, a screechin' and a jumpin' — the ice went 
crack ! c' wallop ! cracking ! chunk ! and she a boundin' like a buck ! 
Lord, the spring that ar gal 's got in her an't common, I 'm o' 'pinion." 

Mrs. Shelby sat perfectly silent, pale with excitement, while Sam told 
his story. 

" God be praised, she isn't dead ! " she said ; " but where is the poor 
child now?" 

" De Lord will pervide," said Sam, rolling up his eyes piously. " As 
I 've been a sayin', dis yer 's a providence, and no mistake, as missis has 
allers been a instructin' on us. Thar 's allers instruments ris up to do de 
Lord's will. Now, if't hadn't been for me to-day, she'd a been took 
a dozen times. Warn't it I started off de bosses dis yer mornin', and 
kept 'em chasin' till nigh dinner-time? And didn't I car Mas'r Haley 
nigh five miles out of de road dis evening ? or else he 'd a' come up with 
Lizy as easy as a dog arter a coon. These yer 's all providences ? " 

" They are a kind of providence that you '11 have to be pretty sparing of, 
Master Sam. I allow no such practices with gentlemen on my place," 


said Mr. Shelby, with as much sternness as he could command under the 

Now, there is no more use in making believe to be angry with a negro* 
than with a child ; both instinctively see the true state of the case, 
through all attempts to affect the contrary ; and Sam was in no wise 
disheartened by this rebuke, though he assumed an air of doleful gravity, 
and stood with the corners of his mouth lowered in most penitential style. 

" Mas'r 's quite right — quite; it was ugly on me — there's no disputin' that 
ar; and, of course, mas'r and missis wouldn't encourage no such wurks. 
I 'm sensible of dat ar ; but a poor nigger like me 's 'mazin' tempted to act 
ugly sometimes, when fellers will cut up such shines as dat ar Mas'r 
Haley. He an't no gen'l'man, no way ; anybody's been raised as I 've 
been can't help a-seein' dat ar." 

" Well, Sam," said Mrs. Shelby, " as you appear to have a proper sense 
of your errors, you may go now, and tell Aunt Chloe she may get you 
some of that cold ham that was left of dinner to-day. You and Andy 
must be hungry." 

"Missis is a heap too good for us," said Sam, making his bow with 
alacrity, and departing. 

It will be perceived, as has been before intimated, that Master Sam 
had a native talent that might, undoubtedly, have raised him to eminence 
in political life — a talent of making capital out of everything that turned 
up, to be invested for his own especial praise and glory ; and having done 
up his piety and humility, as he trusted, to the satisfaction of the parlour, 
he clapped his paim-leaf on his head, with a sort of rakish, free-and-easy 
air, and proceeded to the dominions of Aunt Chloe, with the intention of 
flourishing largely in the kitchen. 

" I '11 speechify these yer niggers," said Sam to himself, " now I 've got 
a chance. Lord, I '11 reel it off to make 'em stare ! " 

It must be observed that one of Sam's especial delights had been to 
ride in attendance on his master to all kinds of political gatherings, 
where, roosted on some rail fence, or perched aloft in some tree, he 
would sit watching the orators, with the greatest apparent gusto ; and 
then, descending among the various brethren of his own colour, 
assembled on the same errand, he would edify and delight them with 
the most ludicrous burlesques and imitations, all delivered with the most 
imperturbable earnestness and solemnity ; and, though the auditors 
immediately about him were generally of his own colour, it not in- 
frequently happened that they were fringed pretty deeply with those of 
a fairer complexion, who listened, laughing and winking, to Sam's great 
self-congratulation. In fact, Sam considered oratory as his vocation, and 
never let slip an opportunity of magnifying his office. 

Now, between Sam and Aunt Chloe there had existed, from ancient 
times, a sort of chronic feud, or, rather, a decided coolness ; but, as Sam 
was meditating something in the provision department, as the necessary 
and obvious foundation of his operations, he determined, on the present 
occasion, to be eminently conciliatory; for he well knew that, although 
" missis' orders " would undoubtedly be followed to the letter, yet he 
should gain a considerable deal by enlisting the spirit also. He therefore 
appeared before Aunt Chloe with a touchingly subdued, resigned ex- 
pression, like one who has suffered immeasurable hardships in behalf 
of a persecuted fellow-creature — enlarged upon the fact that missis had 
directed him to come to Aunt Chloe for whatever miirht be wanting 


to make up the balance in his solids and fluids — and thus unequivocally 
acknowledged her right and supremacy in the cooking department, and all 
thereto pertaining. 

The thing took accordingly. No poor, simple, virtuous body was ever 
cajoled by the attentions of an electioneering politician with more ease 
than Aunt Chloe was won over by Master Sam's suavities ; and if he had 
been the prodigal son himself, he could not have been overwhelm.ed with 
more maternal bountifulness ; and he soon found himself seated, happy 
and glorious, over a large tin pan, containing a sort of oUa podrida of all 
that had appeared on the table for two or three days past. Savoury 
morsels of ham, golden blocks of corn-cake, fragments of pie of every 
conceivable mathematical figure, chicken wings, gizzards, and drumsticks, 
all appeared in picturesque confusion ; and Sam, as monarch of all he 
surveyed, sat with his palm -leaf cocked rejoicingly to one side, and 
patronising Andy at his right hand. 

The kitchen was full of all his compeers, who had hurried and crowded 
in, from the various cabins, to hear the termination of the day's exploits. 
Now was Sam's hour of glory. The story of the day was rehearsed, with 
all kinds of ornament and varnishing which might be necessary to heighten 
its effect ; for Sam, like some of our fashionable dilettanti, never allowed a 
story to lose any of its gilding by passing through his hands. Roars of 
laughter attended the narration, and were taken up and prolonged by all 
the small fry, who were lying, in any quantity, about on the floor, or 
perched in every corner. In the height of the uproar and laughter, Sam, 
however, preserved an immovable gravity, only from time to time rolling 
his eyes up, and giving his auditors divers inexpressibly droll glances, with- 
out departing from the sententious elevation of his oratory. 

"Yer see, fellow-countrymen," said Sam, elevating a turkey's leg with 
energy, " yer see, now, what dis yer chile 's up ter, for fendin' yer all — yes, 
all on yer. For him as tries to get one o' our people is as good as tryin' 
to get all ; yer see the principle 's de same — dat ar 's clar. And any one o' 
these yer drivers that comes smelling round arter any o' our people, why, 
he 's got me in his way ; I'm the feller he 's got to set in with — I 'm the 
feller for ye all to come to, bredren — I '11 stand up for yer rights — I '11 fend 
'em to the last breath ! " 

" Why, but Sam, yer telled me, only this mornin', that you 'd help this 
yer mas'r to cotch Lizy ; seems to me yer talk don't hang together," said 

" I tell you now, Andy," said Sam, with awful superiority, " don't yer be 
a talkin' 'bout what yer don't know nothin' on. Boys like you, Andy, 
means well ; but they can't be spected to coUusitate the great principles of 

Andy looked rebuked, particularly by the hard word coUusitate, which 
most of the youngerly members of the company seemed to consider as a 
settler in the case, while Sam proceeded — 

" Dat ar was conscience, Andy ; when I thought of g^vine arter Lizy, I 
rally spected mas'r was sot dat way. When I found missis was sot the 
contrar, dat ar was conscience moi-e yet — cause fellers allers gets more by 
stickin' to missis' side ; so, you see, I 's persistent either way, and sticks 
up to conscience, and holds on to principles. Yes, principles, ''' said Sam, 
giving an enthusiastic toss to a chicken's neck — " what 's principles good 
for, if we isn't persistent, I wanter know ? Thar, Andy, you may have dat bone, 'tan't picked quite clean." 


Sam's audience hanging on his words with open mouth, he could not 
but proceed. 

" Dis yer matter 'bout persistence, feller-niggers," said Sam, with the air 
of one entering into an abstruse subject, " dis yer 'sistency 's a thing what 
an't seed into very clar, by most anybody. Now, yer see, when a feller 
stands up for a thing one day and night, de contrar de next, folks ses 
(and nat'rally enough dey ses), why he an't persistent — hand me dat ar bit 
o' corn cake, Andy. But let 's look inter it. I hope the gen'lemen and 
der fair sex will 'scuse my usin' an or'nary sort o' 'parison. Here ! I 'm 
tryin' to get top o' der hay. Wal, I puts up my larder dis yer side ; 'tan't 
no go ; den, 'cause I don't try dere no more, but puts my larder right de 
contrar side, an't I persistent ? I 'm persistent in wanting to get up which 
ary side my larder is ; don't yer see, all on yer ? " 

" It 's the only thing ye ever was persistent in, Lord knows ! " muttered 
Aunt Chloe, who was getting rather restive ; the merriment of the evening 
being to her somewhat after the Scripture comparison — like " vinegar 
upon nitre." 

"Yes, indeed," said Sam, rising, full of supper and glory, for a closing 
effort. " Yes, my feller-citizens and ladies of de other sex in general, I 
has principles — I 'm proud to oon 'em — they 's perquisite to dese yer 
times, and ter all times. I has principles, and I sticks to 'em like forty — 
jest anything that I thinks is principle, I goes in to 't. I wouldn't mind if 
dey burn me 'live, I 'd walk right up to de stake, I would, and say, ' Here 
I comes to shed my last blood fur my principles, fur my country, fur gen'l 
interests of s'ciety.' " 

" Well," said Aunt Chloe, " one o' yer principles will have to be to get 
to bed some time to-night, and not to be a keepin' everybody up till 
mornin'. Now, every one of you young uns that don't want to be cracked 
had better be scase, mighty sudden." 

" Niggers ! all on yer," said Sam, waving his palm-leaf with benignity, 
*' I give yer my blessin' ; go ter bed now, and be good boys." 

And with this pathetic benediction, the assembly dispersed. 



The light of the cheerful fire shone on the rug and carpet of a cosy 
parlour, and glittered on the sides of the tea-cups and well-brightened 
tea-pot, as Senator Bird was drawing off his boots, preparatory to inserting 
his feet in a pair of new handsome slippers, which his wife had been 
working for him while away on his senatorial tour. Mrs. Bird, looking 
the very picture of delight, was superintending the arrangements of the 
table, ever and anon mingling admonitory remarks to a number of frolic- 
some juveniles, who were effervescing in all those modes of untold gambol 
and mischief that have astonished mothers ever since the Flood. 

" Tom, let the door-knob alone — there 's a man ! Mary ! Mary ! don't 
pull the cat's tail — poor pussy ! Jim, you mustn't climb on that table — 
no, no ! You don't know, my dear, what a surprise it is to us all, to see 
you here to-night ! " said she, at last, when she found a space to say some- 
thing to her husband. 


" Yes, yes ; I thought I 'd just make a run down, spend the night, and 
have a little comfort at home. I 'm tired to death, and my head aches ! " 

Mrs. Bird cast a glance at a camphor-bottle, which stood in the half- 
open closet, and appeared to meditate an approach to it, but her husband 

" No, no, Mary ; no doctoring ! a cup of your good hot tea, and some 
of our good home living, is what I want. It 's a tiresome business, this 
legislating ! " 

And the senator smiled, as if he rather liked the idea of considering 
himself a sacrifice to his country. 

"Well," said his wife, after the business of the tea-table was getting 
rather slack, "and what have they been doing in the Senate?" 

Now, it was a very unusual thing for gentle Mrs. Bird ever to trouble 
her head with what was going on in the house of the State, very wisely 
considering that she had enough to do to mind her own. Mr. Bird, there- 
fore, opened his eyes in surprise, and said — 

" Not very much of importance." 

"Well, but is it true that they have been passing a law forbidding 
people to give meat and drink to those poor coloured folks that come 
along ? I heard they were talking of some such law, but I didn't think 
any Christian legislature would pass it ! " 

" Why, Mary, you are getting to be a politician all at once." 

" No, nonsense ! I wouldn't give a fip for all your politics generally ; 
but I think this is something downright cruel and unchristian. I hope, 
my dear, no such law has been passed." 

" There has been a law passed forbidding people to help off the slaves 
that come over from Kentucky, my dear ; so much of that thing has been 
done by these reckless Abolitionists that our brethren in Kentucky are 
very strongly excited, and it seems necessary, and no more than Christian 
and kind, that something should be done by our State to quiet the excite- 

" And what is the law ? It don't forbid us to shelter these poor 
creatures a night, does it ? and to give 'em something comfortable to eat, 
and a few old clothes, and send them quietly about their business ? " 

" Why, yes, my dear ; that would be aiding and abetting, you know." 

Mrs. Bird was a timid, blushing little woman, of about four feet in 
height, and with mild blue eyes, and a peach-blow complexion, and the 
gentlest, sweetest voice in the world — as for courage, a moderate-sized 
cock-turkey had been known to put her to rout at the very first gobble ; 
and a stout house-dog of moderate capacity would bring her into 
subjection merely by a show of his teeth. Her husband and children 
were her entire world, and in these she ruled more by entreaty and 
persuasion than by command or argument. There was only one thing 
that was capable of arousing her, and that provocation came in on the 
side of her unusually gentle and sympathetic nature ; anything in the 
shape of cruelty would throw her into a passion, which was the more 
alarming and inexplicable in proportion to the general softness of her 
nature. Generally the most indulgent and easy to be entreated of all 
mothers, still her boys had a very reverent remembrance of a most 
vehement chastisement she once bestowed on them, because she found 
them leagued with several graceless boys of the neighbourhood stoning 
a defenceless kitten. 

" I tell you what," Master Bill used to say, " I was scared that time;. 


Mother came at me so that I thought she was crazy, and I was whipped 
and tumbled off to bed, without any supper, before I could get over 
wondering what had come about ; and, after that, I heard mother crying 
outside the door, which made me feel worse than all the rest. I '11 tell 
you what," he 'd say, " we boys never stoned another kitten." 

On the present occasion, Mrs. Bird rose quickly, with very red cheeks, 
which quite improved her general appearance, and walked up to her 
husband with quite a resolute air, and said, in a determined tone, — 

" Now, John, I want to know if you think such a law as that is right 
and Christian !" 

" You won't shoot me now, Mary, if I say I do ? " 

" I never could have thought it of you, John ! You didn't vote for it ?** 

"Even so, my fair politician." 

" You ought to be ashamed, John ! Poor, homeless, houseless creatures ! 
It 's a shameful, wicked, abominable law, and I '11 break it for one the first 
time I get a chance ; and I hope I shall have a chance, I do ! Things 
have got to a pretty pass, if a woman can't give a warm supper and a bed 
to poor, starving creatures, just because they are slaves, and have been 
abused and oppressed all their lives, poor things !" 

" But, Mary, just listen to me. Your feelings are all quite right, dear, 
and interesting, and I love you for them ; but, then, dear, we mustn't 
suffer our feelings to run away with our judgment. You must consider 
it 's not a matter of private feeling ; there are great public interests in- 
volved ; there is such a state of public agitation rising, that we must put 
aside our private feelings." 

" Now, John, I don't know anything about politics, but I can read my 
Bible, and there I see that I must feed the hungry, clothe the naked, and 
comfort the desolate ; and that Bible I mean to follow." 

" But in cases where your doing so would involve a great public 
evil " 

"Obeying God never brings on public evils. I know it can't. It's 
always safest, all round, to do as He bids us." 

" Now, listen to me, Mary, and I can state to you a very clear argument 
to show " 

" Oh, nonsense, John ! You can talk all night, but you wouldn't do it. 
I put it to you, John : would yoii^ now, turn away a poor, shivering, hungry 
creature from your door, because he was a runaway? Would you, now?" 

Now, if the truth must be told, our senator had the misfortune to be 
a man who had a particularly humane and accessible nature, and turning 
away anybody that was in trouble never had been his forte ; and what was 
worse for him in this particular pinch of the argument was, that his wife 
knew it, and of course was making an assault on rather an indefensible 
point. So he had recourse to the usual means of gaining time for such 
cases made and provided ; he said " ahem," and coughed several times, 
took out his pocket-handkerchief, and began to wipe his glasses. Mrs. 
Bird, seeing the defenceless condition of the enemy's territory, had no 
more conscience than to push her advantage. 

" I should like to see you doing that, John — I really should ! Turning 
a woman out of doors in a snowstorm, for instance; or maybe you'd 
take her up and put her in jail, wouldn't you ? You would make a great 
hand at that!" 

"Of course, it would be a very painful duty," began Mr. Bird in a 
moderate tone. 


" Duty, John ! don't use that word ! You know it isn't a duty — it can't 
be a duty ! If folks want to keep their slaves from running away, let 'em 
treat 'em well, that 's my doctrine. If I had slaves (as I hope I never 
shall have), I 'd risk their wanting to run away from me, or you either, 
John, I tell you, folks don't run away when they are happy ; and when 
they do run, poor creatures ! they suffer enough with cold and hunger and 
fear without everybody's turning against them; and, law or no law, I 
never will, so help me, God ! " 

" Mary ! Mary, my dear, let me reason with you." 

"I hate reasoning, John — especially reasoning on such subjects. 
There 's a way you political folks have of coming round and round a plain 
right thing, and you don't believe in it yourselves when it comes to 
practice. I know you well enough, John. You don't believe it 's right 
any more than I do, and you wouldn't do it any sooner than I." 

At this critical juncture, old Cudjoe, the black man-of-all-work, put his 
head in at the door, and wished "Missis would come into the kitchen"; 
and our senator, tolerably relieved, looked after his little wife with a 
whimsical mixture of amusement and vexation, and seating himself in the 
arm chair began to read the papers. 

After a moment his wife's voice was heard at the door, in a quick, 
earnest tone, — 

"John ! John ! I do wish you 'd come here a moment." 

He laid down his paper and went into the kitchen, and started, quite 
amazed at the sight that presented itself — a young and tender woman, 
with garments torn and frozen, with one shoe gone, and the stocking torn 
away from the cut and bleeding foot, was laid back in a deadly swoon 
upon two chairs. There was the impress of the despised race on her 
face, yet none could help feeling its mournful and pathetic beauty ; while 
its stony sharpness, its cold, fixed, deathly aspect, struck a solemn chill 
over him. He drew his breath short and stood in silence. His wife and 
their only coloured domestic, old Aunt D.inah, were busily engaged in 
restorative measures, while old Cudjoe had got the boy on his knee, and 
was busy pulling off his shoes and stockings and chafing his little cold 

"Sure, now, if she ain't a sight to behold!" said old Dinah com- 
passionately; "'pears like 'twas the heat that made her faint. She was 
tol'able peart when she cum in, and asked if she couldn't warm herself 
here a spell ; and I was just a-askin' her where she cum from, and she 
fainted right down. Never done much hard work, guess, by the looks of 
her hands." 

" Poor creature ! " said Mrs. Bird compassionately, as the woman slowly 
unclosed her large dark eyes and looked vacantly at her. Suddenly an 
expression of agony crossed her face, and she sprang up, saying, " Oh, my 
Harry ! Have they got him ?" 

The boy, at this, jumped from Cudjoe's knee, and running to her side, 
put up his arms. " Oh, he 's here ! he 's here !" she exclaimed. 

"Oh, ma'am !" she said wildly to Mrs. Bird, "do protect us ! don't let 
them get him ! " 

"Nobody shall hurt you here, poor woman," said Mrs. Bird en- 
couragingly. " You are safe ; don't be afraid." 

"God bless you!" said the woman, covering her face and sobbing; 
while the little boy, seeing her crying, tried to get into her lap. 

With many gentle and womanly offices, which none knew better how to 


render than Mrs. Bird, the poor woman was in time rendered more calm, 
A temporary bed was provided for her on the settle near the fire ; and, 
after a short time, she fell into a heavy slumber, with the child, who 
seemed no less weary, soundly sleeping on her arm ; for the mother 
resisted, with nervous anxiety, the kindest attempts to take him from her ; 
and even in sleep her arm encircled him with an unrelaxing clasp, as if 
she could not even then be beguiled of her vigilant hold. 

Mr. and Mrs. Bird had gone back to the parlour, where, strange as it 
may appear, no reference was made on either side to the preceding con- 
versation ; but Mrs. Bird busied herself with her knitting-work, and Mr. 
Bird pretended to be reading the paper. 

" I wonder who and what she is," said Mr. Bird at last, as he laid it 

"When she wakes up, and feels a little rested, we'll see," said Mrs. Bird. 

" I say, wife," said Mr. Bird, after musing in silence over his newspaper. 

" Well, dear." 

" She couldn't wear one of your gowns, could she, by any letting down, 
or such matter? She seems to be rather larger than you are." 

A quite perceptible smile glimmered on Mrs. Bird's face as she answered, 
—"We'll see." 

" Another pause, and Mr. Bird again broke out, — 

" I say, wife ! " 

"Well! What now?" 

"Why, there's that old bombazin cloak that you keep on purpose to 
put over me when I take my afternoon's nap ; you might as well give her 
that — she needs clothes." 

At this instant Dinah looked in to say that the woman was awake, and 
wanted to see missis. 

Mr. and Mrs. Bird went into the kitchen, followed by the two eldest 
boys, the smaller fry having by this time been safely disposed of in bed. 

The woman was now sitting up on the settle by the fire. She was 
looking steadily into the blaze, with a calm, heart-broken expression, very 
different from her former agitated \\dldness. 

"Did you want me?" said Mrs. Bird, in gentle tones. "I hope you 
feel better now, poor woman ! " 

A long-drawn, shivering sigh was the only answer ; but she lifted her 
dark eyes, and fixed them on her with such a forlorn and imploring ex- 
pression that the tears came into the little woman's eyes. 

" You needn't be afraid of anything ; we are friends here, poor woman ! 
Tell me where you came from, and what you want," said she. 

" I came from Kentucky," said the woman. 

" When ? " said Mr. Bird, taking up the interrogatory. 


" How did you come ? " 

" I crossed on the ice." 

" Crossed on the ice ? " said every one present. 

"Yes," said the woman slowly, "I did. God helping me, I crossed on 
the ice ; for they were behind me — right behind — and there was no other 
way ! " 

" Law, missis," said Cudjoe, " the ice is all in broken-up blocks, 
a-swinging and a-tettering up and down in the water ! " 

" I know it was — I know it ! " said she wildly ; " but I did it ! I 
wouldn't have thought I could — I didn't think I should get over, but I 


didn't care ! I could but die, if I didn't. The Lord helped me ; nobody 
knows how much the Lord can help 'em, till they try," said the woman, 
with a flashing eye. 

" Were you a slave ? " said Mr. Bird. 

"Yes, sir ! I belonged to a man in Kentucky." 

" Was he unkind to you ? " 

" No, sir ; he was a good master." 

" And was your mistress unkind to you ? " 

" No, sir — no ! my mistress was always good to me." 

"What could induce you to leave a good home, then, and run away, 
and go through such dangers ? " 

The woman looked up at Mrs. Bird with a keen, scrutinizing glance, 
and it did not escape her that she was dressed in deep mourning. 

" Ma'am," she said suddenly, " have you ever lost a child ? " 

The question was unexpected, and it was a thrust on a new wound ; for 
it was only a month since a darling child of the family had been laid in 
the grave. 

Mr. Bird turned round and walked to the window, and Mrs. Bird burst 
into tears ; but, recovering her voice, she said — 

" Why do you ask that ? I have lost a little one." 

"Then you will feel for me. I have lost two, one after another — ^left 
'em buried there when I came away; and I had only this one left. I 
never slept a night without him ; he was all I had. He was my comfort 
and pride, day and night ; and, ma'am, they were going to take him away 
from me — to sell him — sell him down south, ma'am, to go all alone — a 
baby that had never been away from his mother in his life ! I couldn't 
stand it, ma'am. I knew I never should be good for anything if they did; 
and when I knew the papers were signed, and he was sold, I took him, 
and came off in the night ; and they chased me — the man that bought 
him, and some of mas'r's folks — and they were coming down right behind 
me, and I heard 'em. I jumped right on to the ice, and how I got across 
I don't know ; but, first I knew, a man was helping me up the bank." 

The woman did not sob nor weep. She had gone to a place where tears 
are drj , but every one around her was, in some way, characteristic of 
themselves, showing signs of hearty sympathy. The two little boys, after 
a desperate rummaging in their pockets, in search of those pocket- 
handkerchiefs which mothers know are never to be found there, had 
thrown themselves disconsolately into the skirts of their mother's gown, 
where they were sobbing, and wiping their eyes and noses, to their hearts' 
content ; Mrs. Bird had her face fairly hidden in her pocket-handkerchief; 
aad old Dinah, with tears streaming down her black, honest face, was 
ejaculating, " Lord, have mercy on us ! " with all the fervour of a camp 
meeting ; while old Cudjoe, rubbing his eyes very hard with his cuffs, and 
making a most uncommon variety of wry faces, occasionally responded in 
the same key, with great fervour. Our senator was a statesman, and, of 
course, could not be expected to cry, like other mortals ; and so he turned 
his back to the company, and looked out of the window, and seemed 
particularly busy in clearing his throat, and wiping his spectacle-glasses, 
occasionally blowing his nose in a manner that was calculated to excite 
suspicion, had any one been in a state to observe critically. 

" How came you to tell me you had a kind master ? " he suddenly 
exclaimed, gulping down very resolutely some kind of rising in his throat, 
and turning suddenly round upon the woman. 


" Because he was a kind master — I '11 say that of him, any way ; and 
my mistress was kind ; but they couldn't help themselves. They were 
owing money ; and there was some way, I can't tell how, that a man had a 
hold on them, and they were obliged to give him his will. I listened, and 
heard him telling mistress that, and she begging and pleading for me, and 
he told her he couldn't help himself, and that the papers were all drawn; and 
then it was I took him, and left my home, and came away. I knew 't was 
no use of my trying to live, if they did it; for 't 'pears like this child is all 
I have." 

" Have you no husband ? " 

" Yes ; but he belongs to another man. His master is real hard to him, 
and won't let him come to see me, hardly ever ; and he 's grown harder 
and harder upon us, and he threatens to sell him down south. It 's like 
I '11 never see hivi again ! " 

The quiet tone in which the woman pronounced these words might 
have led a superficial observer to think that she was entirely apathetic ; 
but there was a calm, settled depth of anguish in her large, dark eye, that 
spoke of something far otherwise. 

" And where do you mean to go, my poor woman ? " said Mrs. Bird. 

"To Canada, if I only knew where that was. Is it very far off, is Canada?" 
said she, looking up with a simple, confiding air, to Mrs. Bird's face. 

" Poor thing ! " said Mrs. Bird involuntarily. 

" Is 't a very great way off, think ? " said the woman earnestly. 

" MiTch further than you think, poor child ! " said Mrs. Bird ; " but we 
will try to think what can be done for you. Here, Dinah, make her up a 
bed in your own room, close by the kitchen, and I '11 think what to do for 
her in the morning. Meanwhile, never fear, poor woman. Put your trust 
in God ; he will protect you ! " 

Mrs. Bird and her husband re-entered the parlour. She sat down in 
her little rocking-chair before the fire, swaying thoughtfully to and fro. 
Mr. Bird strode up and down the room, grumbling to himself. " Pish ! 
Pshaw ! confounded awkward business ! " At length, striding up to his 
wife, he said — 

" I say, wife, she '11 have to get away from here, this very night. That 
fellow will be down on the scent bright and early to-morrow morning. If 
't was only the v/oman, she could lay quiet till it was over ; but that little 
chap can't be kept still by a troop of horse and foot, I '11 warrant me ; 
he '11 bring it all out, popping his head out of some window or door. A 
pretty kettle of fish it would be for me, too, to be caught with them both 
here, just now ! No ; they '11 have to be got off to-night." 

" To-night ! How is it possible ? — where to ? " 

" Well, I know pretty well where to," said the senator, beginning to put 
on his boots, with a reflective air ; and, stopping when his leg was half in, 
he embraced his knee with both hands, and seemed to go off in deep 

" It 's a confounded awkward, ugly business," said he, at last, beginning 
to tug at his boot-straps again, " and that 's a fact ! " After one boot was 
fairly on, the senator sat with the other in his hand, profoundly studying 
the figure of the carpet. " It will have to be done, though, for aught I 
see — hang it all ! " and he drew the other boot anxiously on, and looked 
out of the window. 

Now, little Mrs. Bird was a discreet woman — a woman who never in her 
life said, " I told you so!" and on the present occasion, though pretty well 


aware of the shape her husband's meditations were taking, she very pru- 
dently forbore to meddle with them, only sat very quietly in her chair, and 
looked quite ready to hear her liege lord's intentions, when he should think 
proper to utter them. 

"You see," he said, "there's my old client, Van Trompe, has come 
over from Kentucky, and set all his slaves free ; and he has bought a place 
seven miles up the creek, here, back in the woods, where nobody goes, 
unless they go on purpose ; and it 's a place that isn't found in a hurry. 
There she 'd be safe enough ; but the plague of the thing is, nobody could 
drive a carriage there to-night but me.^^ 

" Why not ? Cudjoe is an excellent driver." 

" Ay, ay ; but here it is. The creek has to be crossed twice ; and the 
second crossing is quite dangerous, unless one knows it as I do. I have 
crossed it a hundred times on horseback, and know exactly the turns to 
take. And so, you see, there's no help for it. Cudjoe must put in the 
horses, as quietly as may be, about twelve o'clock, and I '11 take her over : 
and then, to give colour to the matter, he must carry me on to the next 
tavern, to take the stage for Columbus that comes by about three or four, 
and so it will look as if I had had the carriage only for that. I shall get 
into business bright and early in the morning. But I 'm thinking I shall 
feel rather cheap there, after all that 's been said and done ; but, hang it, I 
can't help it ! " 

"Your heart is better than your head, in this case, John," said the wife., 
laying her little white hand on his. " Could I ever have loved you, had I 
not known you better than you know yourself?" And the little woman 
looked so handsome, with the tears sparkling in her eyes, that the senator 
thought he must be a decidedly clever fellow to get such a pretty creature 
into such a passionate admiration of him ; and so, what could he do but 
walk off soberly, to see about the carriage? At the door, however, he 
stopped a moment, and, then coming back, he said, with some hesitation — 

" Mary, I don't know how you 'd feel about it, but there 's the drawer 
fuU of things — of — of — poor little Henry's." So saying, he turned quickly 
on his heel, and shut the door after him. 

His wife opened the little bedroom door adjoining her room, and, taking 
the candle, set it down on the top of a bureau there ; then from a small 
recess she took a key, and put it thoughtfully in the lock of a drawer, and 
made a sudden pause ; while two boys, who, boy-like, had followed close 
on her heels, stood looking, with silent, significant glances, at their mother. 
And oh ! mother that reads this, has there never been in your house a 
drawer, or a closet, the opening of which has been to you like the opening 
again of a little grave ? Ah ! happy mother that you are, if it has not 
been so ! 

Mrs. Bird slowly opened the drawer. There were little coats of many a 
form and pattern, piles of aprons, and rows of small stockings ; and even 
a pair of little shoes, worn and rubbed at the toes, were peeping from the 
folds of a paper. There was a toy horse and waggon, a top, a ball — 
memorials gathered with many a tear and many a heart-break ! She sat 
down by the drawer, and leaning her head on her hands over it, wept 
till the tears fell through her fingers into the drawer; then suddenly- 
raising her head, she began, with nervous haste, selecting the plainest and 
most substantial articles, and gathering them into a bundle. 

" Mamma," said one of the boys, gently touching her arm, " are you 
going to give away those things ? " 


"My dear boys," she said, softly and earnestly, "if our dear, loving, 
little Henry looks down from heaven, he would be glad to have us do this. 
I could not find it in my heart to give them away to any common person — 
to anybody that was happy; but I give them to a mother more heart- 
broken and sorrowful than I am ; and I hope God will send His blessings 
with them ! " 

There are in this world blessed souls, whose sorrows all spring up into 
joys for others ; whose earthly hopes, laid in the grave with many tears, 
are the seed from which spring healing flowers and balm for the desolate 
and the distressed. Among such was the delicate woman who sits there 
by the lamp, dropping slow tears, while she prepares the memorials of her 
own lost one for the outcast wanderer. 

After a while, Mrs. Bird opened a wardrobe, and taking from thence 
a plain, serviceable dress or two, she sat down busily to her work-table, 
and, with needle, scissors, and thimble at hand, quietly commenced the 
"letting down" process which her husband had recommended, and con- 
tinued busily at it till the old clock in the corner struck twelve, and she 
heard the low rattling of wheels at the door. 

" Mary," said her husband, coming in, with his overcoat in his hand, 
" you must wake her up now ; we must be off." 

Mrs. Bird hastily deposited the various articles she had collected in 
a small plain trunk, and, locking it, desired her husband to see it in the 
carriage, and then proceeded to call the woman. Soon, arrayed in a 
cloak, bonnet, and shawl, that had belonged to her benefactress, she 
appeared at the door, with the child in her arms. Mr. Bird hurried her 
into the carriage, and Mrs. Bird pressed on after her to the carriage-steps. 
Eliza leaned out of the carriage, and put out her hand, a hand as soft and 
beautiful as was given in return. She fixed her large, dark eyes, full of 
earnest meaning, on Mrs. Bird's face, and seemed going to speak. Her 
lips moved, she tried once or twice, but there was no sound, and pointing 
upward, with a look never to be forgotten, she fell back in the seat, and 
covered her face. The door was shut, and the carriage drove on. 

What a situation, now, for a patriotic senator, who had been all the 
week before spurring up the. Legislature of the native State to pass more 
stringent resolutions against escaping fugitives, their harbourers and 
abettors ! 

Our good senator in his native State had not been exceeded by any 
of his brethren at Washington in the sort of eloquence which had won for 
them immortal renown ! How sublimely he had sat with his hands in his 
pockets, and scouted all sentimental weakness of those who would put 
the welfare of a few miserable fugitives before great State interests ! 

He was as bold as a lion about it, and " mightily convinced " not only 
himself, but everybody that heard him ; but then his idea of a fugitive was 
only an idea of the letters that spell the word ; or, at the most, the image 
of a little newspaper picture of a man with a stick and bundle, with " Ran 
away from the subscriber" under it. The magic of the real presence 
of distress, the imploring human eye, the frail, trembling, human hand, 
the despairing appeal of helpless agony, these he had never tried. He 
had never thought that a fugitive might be a hapless mother, a defenceless 
child, like that one which was now wearing his lost boy's little well-known 
cap ; and so, as our poor senator was not stone or steel, as he was a man, 
and a downright noble-hearted one, too, he was, as everybody must see, in 
a sad case for his patriotism. And you need not exult over him, good brother 


of the Southern States; for we have some inkUngs that many of you, 
under similar circumstances, would not do much better. We have reason 
to know, in Kentucky, as in Mississippi, are noble and generous hearts, to 
whom never was a tale of suffering told in vain. Ah, good brother, is 
it fair for you to expect of us services which your own brave, honourable 
heart would not allow you to render, were you in our place ? 

Be that as it may, if our good senator was a political sinner, he was 
in a fair way to expiate it by his night's penance. There had been a long 
continuous period of rainy weather, and the soft, rich earth of Ohio, as 
every one knows, is admirably suited to the manufacture of mud ; and the 
road was an Ohio railroad of the good old times. 

"And pray what sort of a road may that be?" says some eastern 
traveller, who has been accustomed to connect no ideas with a railroad 
but those of smoothness or speed. 

Know, then, innocent eastern friend, that in benighted regions of the 
west, where the mud is of unfathomable and sublime depth, roads are 
made of round rough logs, arranged transversely side by side, and coated 
over in their pristine freshness with earth, turf, and whatsoever may come 
to hand, and then the rejoicing native calleth it a road, and straightway 
essayeth to ride thereupon. In process of time the rains wash off all 
the turf and grass aforesaid, move the logs hither and thither, in pictur- 
esque positions, up, down, and crosswise, with divers chasms and ruts 
of black mud intervening. 

Over such a road as this our senator went stumbling along, making 
moral reflections as continuously as under the circumstances could be 
expected, the carriage proceeding along much as follows : bump ! bump ! 
bump ! slush ! down in the mud ! — the senator, woman, and child reversing 
their positions so suddenly as to come, without any very accurate adjust- 
ment, against the windows of the downhill side. Carriage sticks fast, while 
Cudjoe on the outside is heard making a great muster among the horses. 
After various ineffectual pullings and twitchings, just as the senator is 
losing all patience, the carriage suddenly rights itself with a bounce, tw^o 
front wheels go down into another abyss, and senator, woman, and child, 
all tumble promiscuously on to the front seat; senator's hat is jammed 
over his eyes and nose quite unceremoniously, and he considers himself 
fairly extinguished ; child cries, and Cudjoe on the outside delivers 
animated addresses to the horses, who are kicking and floundering, and 
straining under repeated cracks of the whip. Carriage springs up with 
another bounce — down go the hind wheels — senator, woman, and child fly 
over on to the back seat, his elbows encountering her bonnet, and both his 
feet being jammed into his hat, which flies off in the concussion. After a 
few moments the "slough" is passed, and the horses stop panting; the 
senator finds his hat, the woman straightens her bonnet, and hushes her 
child, and they brace themselves firmly for what is yet to come. 

For a while only the continuous bump ! bump ! intermingled, just by 
way of variety, with divers side plunges and compound shakes ; and they 
begin to flatter themselves that they are not so badly off, after all. At 
last, with a square plunge, which puts all on to their feet and then down 
into their seats with incredible quickness, the carriage stops, and, after 
much outside commotion, Cudjoe appears at the door. 

" Please, sir, it 's a powerful bad spot, this yer. I don't know how we 's 
to get clar out. I 'm a thinkin' we '11 have to be a gettin' rails." 

The senator despairingly steps out, picking gingerly for some firm foot- 


hold. Down goes one foot an immeasurable depth ; he tries to pull it up, 
loses his balance, and tumbles over into the mud, and is fished out, in 
a very despairing condition, by Cudjoe. 

But we forbear, out of sympathy to our readers' bones. Western 
travellers, who have beguiled the midnight hour in the interesting process 
of pulling down rail-fences to pry their carriages out of mud-holes, will 
have a respectful and mournful sympathy with our unfortunate hero. We 
beg them to drop a silent tear, and pass on. 

It was full late in the night when the carriage emerged, dripping and 
bespattered, out of the creek, and stood at the door of a large farmhouse. 
It took no inconsiderable perseverance to arouse the inmates ; but at last 
the respectable proprietor appeared, and undid the door. He was a great, 
tall, bristhng Orson of a fellow, full six feet and some inches in his 
stockings, and arrayed in a red flannel hunting shirt. A very heavy viat 
of sandy hair, in a decidedly tousled condition, and a beard of some days' 
growth, gave the worthy man an appearance, to say the least, not par- 
ticularly prepossessing. He stood for a few minutes holding the candle 
aloft, and blinking on our travellers with a dismal and mystified expression 
that was truly ludicrous. It cost some effort of our senator to induce him 
£0 comprehend the case fully ; and while he is doing his best at that, we 
shall give him a little introduction to our readers. 

Honest old John van Trompe was once quite a considerable land-owner 
and slave-owner in the State of Kentucky. Having " nothing of the bear 
about him but the skin," and being gifted by nature with a great, honest, 
just heart, quite equal to his gigantic frame, he had been for some years 
witnessing with repressed uneasiness the workings of a system equally bad 
for oppressor and oppressed. At last, one day, John's great heart had 
swelled altogether too big to wear his bonds any longer ; so he just took 
his pocket-book out of his desk, and went over into Ohio, and bought 
a quarter of a township of good, rich land, made out free papers for all his 
people, men, women, and children, packed them up in waggons, and sent 
theiA off to settle down ; and then honest John turned his face up the 
creek, and sat quietly down on a snug, retired farm, to enjoy his conscience 
and his reflections. 

" Are you the man that will shelter a poor woman and child from slave- 
catchers ? " said the senator explicitly. 

"I rather think I am," said honest John, with some considerable 

" I thought so," said the senator. 

"If there's anybody comes," said the good man, stretching his tall, 
muscular form upward, "why, here I'm ready for 'em; and I've got 
seven sons, each six foot high, and they'll be ready for 'em. Give our 
respects to 'em," said John ; " tell 'em it 's no matter how soon they 
call, make no kinder difference to us," said John, running his fingers 
through the shock of hair that thatched his head, and bursting out into a 
great laugh. 

Weary, jaded, and spiritless, Eliza dragged herself up to the door, 
with her child lying, in a heavy sleep, on her arm. The rough man held 
'the candle to her face, and, uttering a kind of compassionate grunt, 
opened the door of a small bedroom adjoining to the large kitchen 
where they were standing, and motioned her to go in. He took do^vn 
a candle, and, lighting it, set it upon the table, and then addressed himself 
£0 Eliza. 


" Now I say, gal, you needn't be a bit afeared, let who will come here. 
I 'm up to all that sort o' thing," said he, pointing to two or three goodly 
rifles over the mantelpiece ; " and most people that know me know that 
't wouldn't be healthy to try to get anybody out o' my house when I 'm agin 
it. So now you jist go to sleep now, as quiet as if yer mother was a 
rockin' ye," said he, as he shut the door. 

"Why, this is an uncommon handsome un," he said to the senator. 
"Ah, well; handsome uns has the greatest cause to run sometimes, 
if they has any kind o' feeling, such as decent women should. I know 
all about that." 

The senator, in a few words, briefly explained Eliza's history. 

" O ! ou ! aw ! now I want to know ! " said the good man pitifully, 
" sho ! now, sho ! That 's natur' now, poor crittur ! hunted down, now, 
like a deer — hunted down jest for havin' natural feelin's, and doin' what 
no kind o' mother could help a doin' ! I tell ye what, these yer things 
make me come the nighest to swearin', now, o' most anything," said 
honest John, as he wiped his eyes with the back of a great freckled, 
yellow hand. " I tell ye what, stranger, it was years and years before I 'd 
jine the Church, 'cause the ministers round in our parts used to preach 
that the Bible went in for these 'ere cuttings up ; and I couldn't be up to 
'em with their Greek and Hebrew, and so I took up agin 'em, Bible and 
all. I never jined the Church till I found a minister that was up to 'em 
all in Greek and all that, and he said right the contrary ; and then I took 
right hold, and jined the Church — I did, now, fact," said John, who had 
been all this time uncorking some very frisky bottled cider, which at this 
juncture he presented. 

"Ye'd better jest put up here now till daylight," said he heartily; 
"and I'll ca,ll up the old woman, and have a bed got ready for you 
in no time." 

"Thank you, my good friend," said the senator, "I must be along, 
to take the night stage for Columbus." 

" Ah, well, then, if you must, I '11 go a piece with you, and show you a 
cross road that will take you there better than the road you came on. 
That road 's mighty bad." 

John equipped himself, and, with lantern in hand, was soon seen 
guiding the senator's carriage towards a road that ran down in a hollow at 
the back of his dwelling. When they parted, the senator put into his 
hand a ten-dollar bill. 

" It 's for her," he said briefly. 

" Ay, ay ! " said John, with equal conciseness. 

They shook hands, and parted. 



The February morning looked gray and drizzling through the window of 
Uncle Tom's cabin. It looked on downcast faces, the images of mournful 
hearts. The little table stood out before the fire, covered with an ironing 
cloth ; a coarse but clean shirt or two, fresh from the iron, hung on the 
back of a chair by the fire, and Aunt Chloe had another spread out 


before her on the table. Carefully she rubbed and ironed every fold and 
every hem with the most scrupulous exactness, every now and then raising 
her hand to her face to wipe off the tears that were coursing down her 

Tom sat by, with his Testament open on his knee, and his head leaning 
upon his hand ; but neither spoke. It was yet early, and the children lay 
all asleep together in their little rude trundle-bed. 

Tom, who had to the full the gentle, domestic heart, which, woe for 
them ! has been a peculiar characteristic of his unhappy race, got up, and 
walked silently to look at his children. 

" It 's the last time," he said. 

Aunt Chloe did not answer, only rubbed away over and over on the 
coarse shirt, already as smooth as hands could make it ; and finally setting 
her iron suddenly down with a despairing plunge, she sat down to the 
table, and "lifted up her voice and wept." 

" S'pose we must be resigned ; but, O Lord ! how ken I ? If I know'd 
anything whar you 's goin', or how they 'd sarve you ! Missis says she '11 
try and 'deem ye in a year or two ; but Lor ! nobody never comes up that 
goes down thar ! They kills 'em ! I 've hearn 'em tell how dey works 'em 
up on dem ar plantations." 

" There '11 be the same God there, Chloe, that there is here." 

"Well," said Aunt Chloe, "s'pose dere will; but de Lord lets drefful 
things happen sometimes. I don't seem to get no comfort dat way." 

"I'm in the Lord's hands," said Tom; "nothin' can go no furder 
than he lets it ; and thar 's one thing I can thank him for. It 's 7ne that 's 
sold and going down, and not you nur the chil'en. Here you 're safe ; 
what comes will come only on me ; and the Lord, he '11 help me — I know 
he will." 

Ah, bra^:e, manly heart, smothering thine own sorrow to comfort thy 
beloved ones ! Tom spoke with a thick utterance, and with a bitter 
choking in his throat — but he spoke brave and strong. 

"Let's think on our marcies ! " he added tremulously, as if he was 
quite sure he needed to think on them very hard indeed. 

" Marcies ! " said Aunt Chloe, " don't see no marcy in 't ! 'T an't 
right ! 't an't right it should be so ! Mas'r never ought ter left it so 
that ye cotcld be took for his debts. Ye've arn't him all he gets for 
ye twice over. He owed ye yer freedom, and ought ter gin 't to yer years 
ago. Mebbe he can't help himself now, but I feel it 's wrong. Nothing 
can't beat that ar out o' me. Such a faithful crittur as ye 've been, and 
allers sot his business 'fore yer own every way, and reckoned on him more 
than yer own wife and chil'en ! Them as sells heart's love and heart's 
blood, to get out thar scrapes, de Lord '11 be up to 'em ! " 

" Chloe ! now, if ye love me, yer won't talk so, when perhaps jest the 
last time we '11 ever have together ! And I '11 tell ye, Chloe, it goes agin 
me to hear one word agin mas'r. Wan't he put in my arms a baby ? — It 's 
nature I should think a heap of him. And he couldn't be spected to 
think so much of poor Tom. Mas'rs is used to havin' all these yer 
things done for 'em, and nat'lly they don't think so much on't. They 
can't be spected to, no -way. Set him 'longside of other mas'rs — who 's 
had the treatment and the livin' I 've had ? And he never would have let 
this yer come on me if he could have seed it aforehand. I know he 

" Wal, any way, thar 's wrong about it someu'har" said Aunt Chloe, . 


in whom a stubborn sense of justice was a predominant trait. " I can't 
jest make out whar 'tis, but thar's wrong somewhar, I 'm clar o' that." 

" Yer ought ter look up to the Lord above ; he 's above all — thar don't 
a sparrow fall without him." 

"It don't seem to comfort me, but I spect it orter," said Aunt Chloe. 
"But dar's no use talkin' : I'll jest wet up de corn-cake, and get ye one 
good breakfast, 'cause nobody knows when you '11 get another." 

In order to appreciate the sufferings of the negroes sold south, it must 
be remembered that all the instinctive affections of that race are peculiarly 
strong. Their local attachments are very abiding. They are not naturally 
daring and enterprising, but home-loving and affectionate. Add to this all 
the terrors with which ignorance invests the unknown, and add to this, 
again, that selling to the south is set before the negro, from childhood, as 
the last severity of punishment. The threat that terrifies more than 
whipping or torture of any kind is the threat of being sent down river. 
We have ourselves heard this feeling expressed by them, and seen the 
unaffected horror with which they will sit, in their gossiping hours, and 
tell frightful stories of that " down river," which to them is 

" The undiscovered country, from whose bourne 
No traveller returns." 

A missionary among the fugitives in Canada told us that many of the 
fugitives confessed themselves to have escaped from comparatively kind 
masters, and that they were induced to brave the perils of escape, in 
almost every case, by the desperate horror with which they regarded being 
sold south— a doom which was hanging either over themselves or their 
husbands, their wives, or children. This nerves the African, naturally 
patient, timid, and unenterprising, with heroic courage, and leads him to 
suffer hunger, cold, pain, the perils of the wilderness, and the more dread 
penalties of re-capture. 

The simple morning meal now smoked on the table, for Mrs. Shelby 
had excused Aunt Chloe's attendance at the great house that morning. 
The poor soul had expended all her little energies on this farewell feast — 
had killed and dressed her choicest chicken, and prepared her corn-cake 
with scrupulous exactness, just to her husband's taste, and brought out 
•certain mysterious jars on the mantel-piece, some preserves that were 
never produced except on extreme occasions. 

" Lor', Pete," said Mose triumphantly, " han't we got a buster of a 
breakfast ! " at the same time catching at a fragment of the chicken. 

Aunt Chloe gave him a sudden box on the ear. " Thar, now ! crowing 
over the last breakfast yer poor daddy 's gwine to have to home ! " 

" O Chloe ! " said Tom gently. 

" Wal, I can't help it," said Aunt Chloe, hiding her face in her apron ; 
•" I 's so tossed about, it makes me act ugly." 

The boys stood quite still, looking first at their father and then at their 
mother, while the baby, climbing up her clothes, began an imperious, 
commanding cry. 

" Thar ! " said Aunt Chloe, wiping her eyes and taking up the baby ; 
" now I'se done, I hope — now do eat something. This yer 's my nicest 
• chicken. Thar, boys, ye shall have some, poor critturs ! Yer mammy 's 
-been cross to yer." 

The boys needed no second invitation, and went in with great zeal for 


the eatables ; and it was well they did so, as otherwise there would have 
been very little performed to any purpose by the party. 

" Now," said Aunt Chloe, bustling about after breakfast, " I must put 
up yer clothes. Jest like as not, he '11 take 'em all away. I know thar 
ways — mean as dirt, they is ! Wal, now, yer flannels for rhumatis is in 
this corner; so be careful, 'cause there won't nobody make ye no more. 
Then here 's yer old shirts, and these yer is new ones. I toed oif 
these yer stockings last night, and put de ball in 'em to mend with. 
But Lor ! who '11 ever mend for ye ? " and Aunt Chloe, again over- 
come, laid her head on the box side, and sobbed. " To think on 't ! no 
crittur to do for ye, sick or well ! I don't rally think I ought ter be good 
now ! " 

The boys, having eaten everything there was on the breakfast-table, 
began now to take some thought of the case ; and seeing their mother 
crying, and their father looking very sad, began to whimper and put their 
hands to their eyes. Uncle Tom had the baby on his knee, and was 
letting her enjoy herself to the utmost extent, scratching his face and 
pulling his hair, and occasionally breaking out into clamorous explosions 
of delight, evidently arising out of her own internal reflections. 

" Ay, crow away, poor crittur ! " said Aunt Chloe ; " ye '11 have to come 
to it, too ! ye '11 live to see yer husband sold, or mebbe be sold yerself; 
and these yer boys, they 's to be sold, I s'pose, too, jest like as not, when 
dey gets good for somethin' ; an't no use in niggers havin' nothin'." 

Here one of the boys called out, " Thar 's missis a-comin' in ! " 

" She can't do no gQod ; what 's she coming for ? " said Aunt Chloe. 

Mrs. Shelby entered. Aunt Chloe set a chair for her in a manner 
decidedly gruff and crusty. She did not seem to notice either the action 
or the manner. She looked pale and anxious. 

"Tom," she said, " I come to — " and stopping suddenly, and regarding 
the silent group, she sat down in the chair, and, covering her face with her 
handkerchief, began to sob. 

" Lor', now, missis, don't — don't ! " said Aunt Chloe, bursting out in her 
turn ; and for a few moments they all wept in company. And in those 
tears they all shed together, the high and the lowly, melted away all the 
heart-burnings and anger of the oppressed. Oh, ye who visit the dis- 
tressed, do ye know that everything your money can buy, given with a 
cold, averted face, is not worth one honest tear shed in real sympathy ? 

" My good fellow," said Mrs. Shelby, " I can't give you anything to do 
you any good. If I give you money, it will only be taken from you. But 
I tell you solemnly, and before God, that I will keep trace of you, and 
bring you back as soon as I can command the money ; and, till then, 
trust in God ! " 

Here the boys called out that Mas'r Haley was coming, and then an 
unceremonious kick pushed open the door. Haley stood there in very ill- 
humour, having ridden hard the night before, and being not at all pacified 
by his ill-success in re-capturing his prey. 

"Come," said he, "ye nigger, ye 're ready? Servant, ma'am !" said he, 
taking off his hat, as he saw Mrs. Shelby. 

Aunt Chloe shut and corded the box, and, getting up, looked gruffly on 
the trader, her tears seeming suddenly turned to sparks of fire. 

Tom rose up meekly to follow his new master, and raised up his heavy 
box on his shoulder. His wife took the baby in her arms to go with him 
to the waggon, and the children, still crying, trailed on behind. 


Mrs. Shelby, walking up to the trader, detained him for a few moments, 
talking with him in an earnest manner ; and while she was thus talking, 
the whole family party proceeded to a waggon that stood ready harnessed 
at the door. A crowd of all the old and young hands on the place stood 
gathered around it, to bid farewell to their old associate. Tom had been 
looked up to, both as head servant and as Christian teacher, by all the 
place, and there was much honest sympathy and grief about him, 
particularly among the women. 

" Why, Chloe, you bar it better 'n we do ! " said one of the women, 
who had been weeping freely, noticing the gloomy calmness with which 
Aunt Chloe stood by the waggon. 

" I 's done my tears ! " said she, looking grimly at the trader, who was 
coming up. " I doesn't feel to cry 'fore dat ar old limb, no how ! " 

" Get in ! " said Haley to Tom, as he strode through the crowd of 
servants, who looked at him with lowering brows. 

Tom got in, and Haley, drawing out from under the waggon-seat a 
heavy pair of shackles, made them fast around each ankle. 

A smothered groan of indignation ran through the whole circle, and 
Mrs. Shelby spoke from the verandah — 

" Mr. Haley, I assure you that precaution is entirely unnecessary." 

" Don't know, ma'am. I 've lost one five hundred dollars from this yer 
place, and I can't afford to run no more risks." 

" What else could she 'spect on him ? " said Aunt Chloe indignantly ; 
while the two boys, who now seemed to comprehend at once their father's 
destiny, clung to her gown, sobbing and groaning vehemently. 

"I'm sorry," said Tom, "that Mas'r George happened to be away." 

George had gone to spend two or three days with a companion on a 
neighbouring estate, and, having departed early in the morning before 
Tom's misfortune had been made public, had left without hearing of it. 

" Give my love to Mas'r George," he said earnestly. 

Haley whipped up the horse, and, with a steady, mournful look, fixed 
to the last on the old place, Tom was whirled away. 

Mr. Shelby at this time was not at home. He had sold Tom under the 
spur of a driving necessity, to get out of the power of a man he dreaded, 
and his first feeling, after the consummation of the bargain, had been that 
of relief. But his wife's expostulations awoke his half-slumbering regrets ; 
and Tom's disinterestedness increased the unpleasantness of his feelings. 
It was in vain that he said to himself that he had a right to do it, that 
everybody did it, and that some did it without even the excuse of 
necessity ; he could not satisfy his own feelings ; and that he might not 
witness the unpleasant scenes of the consummation, he had gone on a 
short business tour up the country, hoping that all would be over before 
he returned. 

Tom and Haley rattled on along the dusty road, whirling past every old 
familiar spot, until the bounds of the estate were fairly passed, and they 
found themselves out on the open pike. After they had ridden about 
a mile, Haley suddenly drew up at the door of a blacksmith's shop, when, 
taking out with him a pair of handcuffs, he stepped into the shop, to have 
a little alteration in them. 

" These yer 's a little too small for his build," said Haley, showing the 
fetters, and pointing out to Tom. 

" Lor' ! now, if thar an't Shelby's Tom. He han't sold him, now ? " 
said the smith. 


" Yes, he has," said Haley. 

"Now, ye don't! Well, reely," said the smith, "who'd a thought it! 
Why, ye needn't go to fetterin' him up this yer way. He 's the faithfullest 
best crittur " 

" Yes, yes," said Haley ; " but your good fellows are just the critturs to 
want ter run off. Them stupid ones, as doesn't care whar they go, and 
shif'less, drunken ones, as don't care for nothin', they'll stick by, and like 
as not be rather pleased to be toted round ; but these yer prime fellows, 
they hates it like sin. No way but to fetter 'em ; got legs — they '11 use 'em, 
no mistake." 

"Well," said the smith, feeling among his tools, "them plantations 
down thar, stranger, an't jest the place a Kentuck nigger wants to go to ; 
they dies thar tol'able fast, don't they ? " 

" Wal, yes, tol'able fast, ther dying is ; what with the climating and one 
thing and another, they dies so as to keep the market up pretty brisk," 
said Haley. 

" Wal, now, a feller can't help thinkin' it 's a mighty pity to have a nice, 
quiet, likely fellow, as good un as Tom is, go down to be fairly ground up 
on one of them ar sugar plantations." 

" Wal, he 's got a fa'r chance. I promised to do well by him. I '11 get 
him in house-servant in some good old family, and then, if he stands the 
fever and climating, he '11 have a berth good as any nigger ought ter ask 

"H^ leaves his v'fe g'nd chil'en up here, s'pose?" 

"Yes, but he'll get another thar. Lord, thar's women enough every- 
whar," said Haley. 

Tom was sitting very mournfully on the outside of the shop while this 
conversation was going on. Suddenly he heard the quick, short click of 
a horse's hoof behind him ; and before he could fairly awake from his 
surprise, young Master George sprang into the waggon, threw his arms 
tumultuously round his neck, and was sobbing and scolding -with energy. 

" I declare it 's real mean ! I don't care what they say, any of 'em. 
It 's a nasty, mean shame ! If I was a man, they shouldn't do it — they 
should not, so 1 " said George, with a kind of subdued howl. 

" Oh, Mas'r George ! this does me good ! " said Tom. " I couldn't b'ar 
to go off without seein' ye ! It does me real good, ye can't tell ! " Here 
Tom made some movement of his feet, and George's eyes fell on the 

" What a shame ! " he exclaimed, lifting his hands. " I '11 knock that 
old fellow down, I will ! " 

"No, you won't, Mas'r George; and you must not talk so loud. It 
won't help me any, to anger him." 

" Well, I won't, then, for your sake ; but only to think of it — isn't it a 
shame ? They never sent for me, nor sent me any word, and, if it hadn't 
been for Tom Lincoln, I shouldn't have heard it. I tell you, I blew 'em 
up well, all of 'em, at home ! " 

"That ar wasn't right, I 'm feared, Mas'r George." 

" Can't help it ! I say it 's a shame ! Look here, Uncle Tom," said 
he, turning his back to the shop, and speaking in a mysterious tone, 
" Pve brought you my dollar ! " 

" Oh ! I couldn't think o' taken' on 't, Mas'r George, no ways in the 
world ! " said Tom, quite moved. 

"But you shall take it!" said George. "Look here; I told Aunt 


Chloe I 'd do it, and she advised me just to make a hole in it, and put a 
string through, so you could hang it round your neck, and keep it out of 
sight ; else this mean scamp would take it away. I tell ye, Tom, I want 
to blow him up ! it would do me good ! " 

" No, don't, Mas'r George, for it won't do me any good." 

" Well, I won't for your sake," said George, busily tying his dollar round 
Tom's neck ; " but there, now, button your coat tight over it, and keep it, 
and remember, every time you see it, that I '11 come down after you, and 
bring you back. Aunt Chloe and I have been talking about it. I told 
her not to fear ; I '11 see to it, and I '11 tease father's life out if he don't 
do it." 

" Oh, Mas'r George, ye mustn't talk so 'bout yer father." 

" Lor', Uncle Tom, I don't mean anything bad." 

"And now, Mas'r George," said Tom, "ye must be a good boy; 
'member how many hearts is sot on ye. Al'ays keep close to yer mother. 
Don't be gittin' into any of them foolish ways boys has of gittin' too big 
to mind their mothers. Tell ye what, Mas'r George, the Lord gives good 
many things twice over, but he don't give ye a mother but once. Ye '11 
never see such another woman, Mas'r George, if ye live to be a hundred 
years old. So, now, you hold on to her, and grow up, and be a comfort 
to her, thar 's my own good boy — you will now — won't ye ? " 

" Yes, I will, Uncle Tom ! " said George seriously. 

"And be careful of yer speaking, Mas'r George. Young boys, when 
they comes to your age, is wilful sometimes — -it's natur they should be. 
But real gentlemen, such as I hopes you'll be, never lets fall no words 
that isn't 'spectful to thar parents. Ye an't 'fended, Mas'r George ? " 

"No, indeed, Uncle Tom ; you always d'd give me good advice." 

" I 'se older, ye know," said Tom, stroking the boy's fine, curly head 
with his large, strong hand, but speaking in a voice as tender as a 
woman's, "and I sees all that's bound up in you. Oh, Mas'r George, you 
has everything — larnin', privileges, readin', writin' — and you '11 grow up to 
be a great, learned, good man, and all the people on the place and your 
mother and father '11 be so proud on ye ! Be a good mas'r, like your 
father; and be a Christian like yer mother. 'Member yer Creator in the 
days o' yer youth, Mas'r George." 

" I '11 be real good, Uncle Tom, I tell you," said George. " I 'm going 
to be a first-rater ; and don't you be discouraged. I '11 have you back to 
the place, yet. As I told Aunt Chloe this morning, I '11 build your house 
all over, and you shall have a room for a parlour with a carpet on it, when 
I 'm a man. Oh, you '11 have good times yet ! " 

Haley now came to the door, with the handcuffs in his hands. 

" Look here, now, mister," said George, with an air of great superiority, 
as he got out, " I shall let father and mother know how you treat Uncle 
Tom ! " 

" You 're welcome," said the trader. 

" I should think you 'd be ashamed to spend all your life buying men 
and women, and chaining them like cattle ! I should think you 'd feel 
mean ! " said George. 

"So long as your grand folks wants to buy men and women, I'm as 
good as they is," said Haley; "'tan't any meaner sellin' on 'em than 
't is buyin' ! " 

" I '11 never do either, when I 'm a man," said George. " I 'm ashamed 
this day that I 'm a Kentuckian. I always was proud of it before ! " and 


George sat very straight on his horse, and looked round with an air as if 
he expected the state would be impressed with his opinion. 

" Well, good-bye, Uncle Tom ; keep a stiff upper hp," said George. 

" Good-bye, Mas'r George," said Tom, looking fondly and admiringly at 
him. " God Almighty bless you ! Ah ! Kentucky han't got many like 
you ! " he said, in the fulness of his heart, as the frank, boyish face was 
lost to his view. Away he went, and Tom looked till the clatter of his 
horse's heels died away, the last sound or sight of his home. But over his 
heart there seemed to be a warm spot, where those young hands had 
placed that precious dollar. Tom put up his hand, and held it close to 
his heart. 

"Now, I tell ye what, Tom," said Haley, as he came up to the waggon, 
and threw in the handcuffs : " I mean to start far with ye, as I gen'ally do 
with my niggers ; and I '11 tell ye now, to begin with, you treat me far, and 
I '11 treat you far ; I an't never hard on my niggers. Calculates to do the 
best for 'em I can. Now, ye see, you'd better jest settle down comfort- 
able, and not be tryin' no tricks ; because niggers' tricks of all sorts I 'm 
up to, and it 's no use. If niggers is quiet, and don't try to get off, they 
has good times with me; and if they don't, why, it's thar fault, and not 

Tom assured Haley that he had no present intentions of running off. 
In fact, the exhortation seemed rather a superfluous one to a man with a 
great pair of iron fetters on his feet. But Mr. Haley had got in the habit 
of commencing his r- lations with his stock with little exhortations of this 
nature, calculated, as he deemed, to inspire cheerfulness and confidence, 
and prevent the necessity of any unpleasant scenes. 

And here for the present we take our leave of Tom, to pursue the 
fortunes of other characters in our story. 



It was late in a drizzly afternoon that a traveller alighted at the door of a 
small country hotel, in the village of N , in Kentucky. In the bar- 
room he found assembled quite a miscellaneous company, whom stress of 
weather had driven to harbour, and the place presented the usual scenery 
of such re-unions. Great, tall, raw-boned Kentuckians, attired in hunting 
shirts, and trailing their loose joints over a vast extent of territory, with 
the easy lounge peculiar to the race — rifles stacked away in the corner, 
shot-pouches, game-bags, hunting-dogs, and little negroes, all rolled 
together in the corners — were the characteristic features in the picture. 
At one end of the fireplace sat a long-legged gentleman, with his chair 
tipped back, his hat on his head, and the heels of his muddy boots 
reposing sublimely on the mantel-piece — a position, we mil inform our 
readers, decidedly favourable to the turn of reflection incident to western 
taverns, where travellers exhibit a decided preference for this particular 
mode of elevating their understandings. 

Mine host, who stood behind the bar, like most of his countrymen, was 
great of stature, good-natured, and loose-jointed, with an enormous shock 
of hair on his head, and a great tall hat on the top of that 


In fact, everybody in the room bore on his head this characteristic 
emblem of man's sovereignty; whether it were felt-hat, palm-leaf, greasy 
beaver, or fine new chapeau, there it reposed with true republican inde- 
pendence. In truth, it appeared to be the characteristic mark of every 
individual. Some wore them tipped rakishly on one side — these were 
your men of humour, jolly, free-and-easy dogs ; some had them jammed 
independently down over their noses — these were your hard characters, 
thorough men, who, when they wore their hats, wanted to wear them, and 
to wear them just as they had a mind to ; there were those who had them 
set far over back — wide-awake men, who wanted a clear prospect; while 
careless men, who did not know or care how their hats sat, had them 
shaking about in all directions. The various hats, in fact, were quite a 
Shakesperian study. 

Divers negroes, in very free-and-easy pantaloons, and with no redun- 
dancy in the shirt line, were scuttling about, hither and thither, without 
bringing to pass any very particular results, except expressing a generic 
willingness to turn over everything in creation generally for the benefit of 
mas'r and his guests. Add to this picture a jolly, crackling, rollicking fire, 
going rejoicingly up a great wide chimney — the outer door and every 
window being set wide open, and the calico window-curtain flopping and 
snapping in a good stiff breeze of damp raw air — and you have an idea of 
the jollities of a Kentucky tavern. 

Your Kentuckian of the present day is a good illustration of the doc- 
trine of transmitted instincts and peculiarities. His fathers were mighty 
hunters — men who lived in the woods, and slept under the free open 
heavens, with the stars to hold their candles ; and their descendant to this 
day always acts as if the house were his camp — wears his hat at all hours, 
tumbles himself about, and puts his heels on the tops of chairs or mantel- 
pieces, just as his father rolled on the greensward, and put his upon trees 
and logs — keeps all the windows and doors open, winter and summer, that 
he may get air enough for his great lungs — calls everybody "stranger," 
with nonchalant bonho?nie, and is altogether the frankest, easiest, most 
jovial creature living. 

Into such an assembly of the free and easy our traveller entered. He 
was a short, thick-set man, carefully dressed, with a round, good-natured 
countenance, and something rather fussy and particular in his appearance. 
He was very careful of his valise and umbrella, bringing them in with 
his own hands, and resisting, pertinaciously, all offers from the various 
servants to relieve him of them. He looked round the bar-room with 
rather an anxious air, and, retreating with his valuables to the warmest 
corner, disposed them under his chair, sat down, and looked rather appre- 
hensively up at the worthy whose heels illustrated the end of the mantel- 
piece, who was spitting from right to left, with a courage and energy 
rather alarming to gentlemen of weak nerves and particular habits. 

"I say, stranger, how are ye?" said the aforesaid gentleman, firing 
an honorary salute of tobacco-juice in the direction of the new arrival. 

" Well, I reckon," was the reply of the other, as he dodged, with some 
alarm, the threatening honour. 

" Any news ? " said the respondent, taking out a strip of tobacco and a 
large hunting-knife from his pocket. 

" Not that I know of," said the man. 

"Chaw?" said the first speaker, handing the old gentleman a bit of 
his tobacco, with a decidedly brotherly air. 


"No, thank ye; it don't agree with me," said the Httle man, edging off. 

"Don't, eh?" said the other easily, and stowing away the morsel in 
his own mouth, in order to keep up the supply of tobacco juice, for 
the general benefit of society. 

The old gentleman uniformly gave a little start whenever his long-sided 
brother fired in his direction ; and this being observed by his companion, 
he very good-naturedly turned his artillery to another quarter, and pro- 
ceeded to storm one of the fire-irons with a degree of military talent fully 
sufficient to take a city. 

"What's that?" said the old gentleman, observing some of the com- 
pany formed in a group around a large handbill. 

" Nigger advertised ! " said on2 of the company briefly. 

Mr. Wilson, for that v/as the old gentleman's name, rose up, and, after 
carefully adjusting his valise and umbrella, proceeded deliberately to take 
out his spectacles and fix them on his nose; and, this operation being 
performed, read £.s follows : — 

"Ran away from the subscriber, my mulatto boy, George. Said George 
six feet in height, a very light mulatto, brown curly hair ; is very intelli- 
gent, speaks handsomely, can read and write ; will probably try to pass for 
white man ; is deeply scarred on his back and shoulders ; has been 
branded on his right hand with the letter H. 

" I will give four hundred dollars for him alive, and the same sum 
for satisfactory proof that he has been killed." 

The old gentleman read this advertisement from end to end, in a low 
voice, as if he were studying it. 

The long-legged veteran, who had been besieging the fire-irons, as 
before related, now took down his cumbrous length, and, rearing aloft his 
tall form, walked up to the advertisement, and very deliberately spat a full 
discharge of tobacco-juice on it. 

" Ther 's my mind upon that ! " said he briefly, and sat down again. 

"Why. now, stranger, what's that for?" said mine host. 

" I 'd do it all the same to the writer of that ar paper, if he was here," 
said the long man, coolly resurning his old employment of cutting 
tobacco. "Any man that owns a boy like that, and can't find any better 
way o' treating on him, deserves to lose him. Such papers as these is 
a shame to Kentucky; that's my mind right out, if anybody wants to 

" Well, now, that 's the fact," said mine host, as he made an entry in his 

" I 've got a gang of boys, sir," said the long man, resuming his attack 
on the fire-irons, "and I jest tells 'em — 'Boys,' says I, 'rw«, now! 
dig ! put ! jest when ye want to ! I never shall come to look after you ! ' 
That's the way I keep mine. Let 'em know they are free to run any 
time, and it jest breaks up their wanting to. More'n all, I've got free 
papers for 'em all recorded, in case I gets keeled up any o' these times, 
and they knows it ; and I tell ye, stranger, there an't a fellow in our parts 
gets more out of his niggers than I do. Why, my boys have been 
to Cincinnati, with five hundred dollars' worth of colts, and brought 
me back the money, all straight time and agin. It stands to reason 
they should. Treat 'em like dogs, and you '11 have dogs' works and dogs' 
actions. Treat 'em like men, and you '11 have men's works." And the 
honest drover, in his warmth, endorsed this moral sentiment by firing a 
perfect _/%« de/oit at the fireplace. 


" I think you 're altogether right, friend," said Mr. Wilson ; " and 
this boy described here is a fine fellow — no mistake about that. He 
worked for me some half-dozen years in my bagging-factory, and he 
was my best hand, sir. He is an ingenious fellow, too ; he invented 
a machine for the cleaning of hemp — a really valuable affair, it's gone 
into use in several factories. His master holds the patent of it." 

" I '11 warrant ye," said the drover, " holds it and makes money out of it, 
and then turns round and brands the boy in his right hand. If I had 
a fair chance, I 'd mark him, I reckon, so that he 'd carry it one while." 

" These yer knowin' boys is allers aggravatin' and sarcy," said a coarse- 
looking fellow, from the other side of the room; "that's why they 
gets cut up and marked so. If they behaved themselves, they 

"That is to say, the Lord made 'em men, and it's a hard squeeze 
getting 'em down into beasts," said the drover drily. 

"Bright niggers isn't no kind of 'vantage to their masters," continued 
the other, well entrenched in a coarse, unconscious obtuseness, from 
the contempt of his opponent. "What's the use o' talents and them 
things, if you can't get the use on 'em yourself? Why, all the use 
they make on't is to get round you. I 've had one or two of these fellers, 
arid I jest sold 'em down river. I knew I 'd got to lose 'em, first or last, if 
I didn't." 

"Better send up to the Lord, to make you a set, and leave out 
their souls entirely," said the drover. 

Here the conversation was interrupted by the approach of a small one- 
horse buggy to the inn. It had a genteel appearance, and a well-dressed, 
gentlemanly man sat on the seat, with a coloured servant driving. 

The whole party examined the new-comer with the interest Vv^ith which a 
set of loafers on a rainy day usually examine every new-comer. He 
was very tall, with a dark Spanish complexion, fine expressive black eyes, 
and close-curling hair, also of a glossy blackness. His well-formed 
aquiline nose, straight thin lips, and the admirable contour of his finely 
formed limbs, impressed the whole company instantly with the idea of 
something uncommon. He walked easily in among the company, 
and with a nod indicated to his waiter where to place his trunk, bowed to 
the company, and, with his hat in his hand, walked up leisurely to the 
bar, and gave in his name as Henry Butler, Oaklands, Shelby County. 
Turning with an indifferent air, he sauntered up to the advertisement, and 
read it over. 

"Jim," he said to his man, "seems to me we met a boy something like 
this, up at Bernan's, didn't we?" 

" Yes, mas'r," said Jim ; " only I an't sure about the hand." 

"Well, I didn't look, of course," said the stranger, with a careless 
yawn. Then, walking up to the landlord, he desired him to furnish him 
with a private apartment, as he had some writing to do immediately. 

The landlord was all obsequious, and a relay of about seven negroes, 
old and young, male and female, little and big, were soon whizzing about, 
like a covey of partridges, bustling, hurrying, treading on each other's toes, 
and tumbling over each other, in their zeal to get mas'r's room ready, while 
he seated himself easily on a chair in the middle of the room, and 
entered into conversation with the man who sat next him. 

The manufacturer, Mr. Wilson, from the time of the entrance of 
the stranger, had regarded him with an air of disturbed and uneasy 


curiosity. He seemed to himself to have met and been acquainted 
with him somewhere, but he could not recollect. Every few moments, 
when the man spoke, or moved, or smiled, he would start and fix his eyes 
on him, and then suddenly withdraw them, as the bright, dark eyes 
met his with such unconcerned coolness. At last, a sudden recollection 
seemed to flash upon him, for he stared at the stranger with such an air of 
blank amazement and alarm that he walked up to him. 

" Mr. Wilson, I think," said he, in a tone of recognition, and extending 
his hand. "I beg your pardon, I didn't recollect you before. I see 
you remember me — Mr. Butler, of Oaklands, Shelby County." 

"Ye — yes — yes, sir," said Mr. Wilson, like one speaking in a dream. 

Just then a negro boy entered, and announced that mas'r's room 
was ready. 

"Jim, see to the trunks," said the gentleman negligently; and address- 
ing himself to Mr. Wilson, he added, "I should like to have a few 
moments' conversation with you on business, in my room, if you 

Mr. Wilson followed him, as one who walks in his sleep; and they 
proceeded to a large upper chamber, where a new-made fire was crackling, 
and various servants flying about, putting finishing touches to the arrange- 

When all was done, and the servants departed, the young man deliber- 
ately locked the door, and, putting the key in his pocket, faced about, 
and folding his arms on his bosom, looked Mr. Wilson full in the face. 

" George ! " said Mr. Wilson. 

" Yes, George ! " said the young man. 

" I couldn't have thought it ! " 

" I am pretty well disguised, I fancy," said the young man, with a smile. 
" A little walnut bark has made my yellow skin a genteel brown, and I 've 
dyed my hair black; so, you see, I don't answer to the advertisement 
at all." 

" Oh, George ! but this is a dangerous game you are playing. I could 
not have advised you to do it." 

"I can do it on my own responsibility," said George, with the same 
proud smile. 

We remark, en passant, that George was, by his father's side, of white 
descent. His mother was one of those unfortunates of her race marked 
out by personal beauty to be the slave of the passions of her possessor, 
and the mother of children who may never know a father. From one of 
the proudest families in Kentucky he had inherited a set of fine European 
features, and a high, indomitable spirit. From his mother he had received 
only a slight mulatto tinge, amply compensated by its accompanying rich, 
dark eye. A slight change in the tint of the skin and the colour of his 
hair had metamorphosed him into the Spanish-looking fellow he then 
appeared ; and as gracefulness of movement and gentlemanly manners had 
always been perfectly natural to him, he found no difficulty in playing the 
bold part he had adopted — that of a gentleman traveUing with his 

Mr. Wilson, a good-natured but extremely fidgety and cautious old 
gentleman, ambled up and down the room, appearing, as John Bunyan 
hath it, " much tumbled up and down in his mind," and divided between 
his wish to help George, and a certain confused notion of maintaining law 
and order ; so, as he shambled about, he delivered himself as follows : — 


"Well, George, I s'pose you're running away — leaving your lawful 
master, George — (I don't wonder at it) — at the same time, I am sorry, 
George — yes, decidedly — I think I must say that. George — it's my duty 
to tell you so." 

" Why are you sorry, sir ? " said George calmly. 

" Why, to see you, as it were, setting yourself in opposition to the laws 
of your country." 

" J/y country !" said George, with a strong and bitter emphasis; "what 
country have I but the grave .? — and I wish to God that I was laid there ! " 

" Why, George, no — no — it won't do ; this way of talking is wicked — 
unscriptural. George, you 've got a hard master — in fact, he is — well, he 
conducts himself reprehensibly — I can't pretend to defend him. But you 
know how the angel commanded Hagar to return to her mistress, and 
submit herself under her hand; and the apostle sent back Onesimus to 
his master." 

" Don't quote Bible at me that way," Mr. Wilson," said George, with a 
flashing eye ; " don't ! for my wife is a Christian, and I mean to be, if 
ever I get to where I can ; but to quote Bible to a fellow in my circum- 
stances is enough to make him give it up altogether. I appeal to God 
Almighty ; I 'm willing to go with the case to Him, and ask Him if I do 
wrong to seek my freedom." 

" These feelings are quite natural, George," said the good-natured man, 
blowing his nose. " Yes, they 're natural ; but it is my duty not to 
encourage 'em in you. Yes, my boy, I 'm sorry for you, now ; it 's a bad 
case — very bad ; but the apostle says, ' Let every one abide in the 
condition in which he is called.' We must all submit to the indications 
of Providence, George — don't you see ? " 

George stood with his head drawn back, his arms folded tightly over his 
broad breast, and a bitter smile curling his lips. 

" I wonder, Mr. Wilson, if the Indians should come and take you a 
prisoner away from your wife and children, and want to keep you all your 
life hoeing corn for them, if you'd think it your duty to abide in the 
condition in which you were called? I rather think that you'd think 
the first stray horse you could find an indication of Providence — shouldn't 
you ? " 

The little old gentleman stared with both eyes at this illustration of the 
case; but, though not much of a reasoner, he had the sense in which 
some logicians on this particular subject do not excel — that of saying 
nothing where nothing could be said. So, as he stood carefully stroking 
his umbrella, and folding and patting down all the creases in it, he 
proceeded on with his exhortations in a general way. 

"You see, George, you know, now, I always have stood your friend; 
and whatever I 've said, I 've said for your good. Now, here, it seems to 
me, you're running an awful risk. You can't hope to carry it out. If 
you 're taken, it will be worse with you than ever ; they '11 only abuse you 
and half kill you, and sell you down river." 

" Mr. Wilson, I know all this," said George. "I do run a risk, but " 

he threw open his overcoat, and showed two pistols and a bowie-knife. 
" There ! " he said, " I 'm ready for 'm ! Down south I never wt7/ go. 
No ! if it comes to that, I can earn myself at least six feet of free soil 
— the first and last I shall ever own in Kentucky ! " 

" Why, George, this state of mind is awful ! it 's getting really desperatCj 
George ! I 'm concerned. Going to break the laws of your country ! " 


" My country again ! Mr, Wilson, you have a country ; but what 
country have /, or any one hke me, born of slave mothers ? What laws 
are there for us ? We don't make them — we don't consent to them — we 
have nothing to do with them; all they do for us is to crush us, and 
keep us down. Haven't I heard your Fourth-of-July speeches? Don't 
you tell us all, once a year, that governments derive their just power from 
the consent of the governed ? Can't a fellow think that hears such things ? 
Can't he put this and that together, and see what it comes to ? " 

Mr. Wilson's mind was one of those that may not unaptly be represented 
by a bale of cotton — downy, soft, benevolently fuzzy and confused. He 
really pitied George with all his heart, and had a sort of dim and cloudy 
perception of the style of feeling that agitated him ; but he deemed it his 
duty to go on talking gaod to him, with infinite pertinacity. 

" George, this is bad. I must tell you, you know, as a friend, you 'd 
better not be meddling with such notions ; they are bad, George, very bad, 
for boys in your condition — very " ; and Mr. Wilson sat down to a table 
and began nervously chewing the handle of his umbrella. 

" See here, now, Mr. Wilson," said George, coming up and sitting 
himself determinately down in front of himj "look at me, now. Don't 
I sit before you, every way just as much a man as you are ? Look at my 
face — look at my hands — look at my body," and the young man drew 
himself up proudly. "Why am I not a. man as much as anybody? Well, 
Mr. Wilson, hear what I can tell you. I had a father — one of your 
Kentucky gentlemen — who didn't think enough of me to keep me from 
being sold with his dogs and horses, to satisfy the estate, when he died. 
I saw my mother put up at sheriff's sale, with her seven children. They 
were sold before her eyes, one by one, all to different masters ; and I was 
the youngest. She came and kneeled down before old mas'r, and begged 
him to buy her with me, that she might have at least one child with her ; 
and he kicked her away with his heavy boot. I saw him do it ; and the 
last that I heard was her moans and screams, when I was tied to his 
horse's neck, to be carried off to his place." 

"Well then?" 

" My master traded with one of the men, and bought my oldest sister. 
She was a pious, good girl — a member of the Baptist Church — and as 
handsome as my poor mother had been. She was well brought up, and 
had good manners. At first, I was glad she was bought, for I hajd one 
friend near me. I was soon sorry for it. Sir, I have stood at the door 
and heard her whipped, when it seemed as if every blow cut into my 
naked heart, and I couldn't do anything to help her ; and she was 
whipped, sir, for wanting to live a decent Christian life, such as your 
laws give no slave-girl a right to live; and at last I saw her chained 
with a trader's gang, to be sent to market in Orleans — sent there for 
nothing else but that — and that's the last I know of her. Well, I grew 
up — long years and years — no father, no mother, no sister, not a living 
soul that cared for me more than a dog ; nothing but whipping, scolding, 
starving. Why, sir, I've been so hungry that I have been glad to take 
the bones they threw to their dogs ; and yet, when I was a little fellow, 
and laid awake whole nights and cried, it wasn't the hunger, it wasn't the 
whipping, I cried for. No, sir; it was for my mot/ier and my sisters — it 
was because I hadn't a friend to love me on earth. I never knew what 
peace or comfort was. I never had a kind word spoken to me till I 
came to work in your factory. Mr. Wilson, you treated me well; you 


encouraged me to do well, and to learn to read and write, and to try 
to make something of myself; and God knows how grateful I am for it. 
Then, sir, I found my wife ; you 've seen her — you know how beautiful 
she is. When I found she loved me, when I married her, I scarcely 
could believe I was alive, I was so happy; and, sir, she is as good as 
she is beautiful. But now, what? Why, now comes my master, takes 
me right away from my work, and my friends, and all I like, and grinds 
me down into the very dirt ! And why ? Because, he says, I forgot who 
I was ; he says, to teach me that I am only a nigger ! After all and last 
of all, he comes between me and my wife, and says I shall give her up, 
and live with another woman. And all this your laws give him power 
to do, in spite of God or man. Mr. Wilson, look at it ! There isn't 
one of all these things that have broken the hearts of my mother and my 
sister, and my wife and myself, but your laws allow, and give every man 
power to do, in Kentucky, and none can say to him nay ! Do you call 
these the laws of my country ? Sir, I haven't any country, any more than 
I have any father. But I 'm going to have one. I don't want anything of 
your country, except to be let alone — to go peaceably out of it ; and when 
I get to Canada, where the laws will own me and protect me, that shall be 
my country, and its laws I will obey. But if any man tries to stop me, 
let him take care, for I am desperate. I '11 fight for my liberty to the last 
breath I breathe. You say your fathers did it ; if it was right for them, it 
is right for me ! " 

This speech, delivered partly while sitting at the table, and partly walking 
up and down the room — delivered with tears, and flashing eyes, and de- 
spairing gestures — was altogether too much for the good-natured old body 
to whom it was addressed, who had pulled out a great yellow silk pocket- 
handkerchief, and was mopping up his face with great energy. 

"Blast 'em all !" he suddenly broke out. "Haven't I always said so — 
the infernal old cusses ? I hope I ain't swearing, now. Well ! go ahead, 
George, go ahead ; but, be careful, my boy ; don't shoot anybody, George, 
unless — well — you 'd better not shoot, I reckon ; at least, I wouldn't hit 
anybody, you know. Where is your wife, George?" he added, as he 
nervously rose from his chair, and began walking the room. 

"Gone, sir — gone with her child in her arms, the Lord only knows 
where. Gone after the north star ; and when we ever meet, or whether 
we meet at all in this world, no creature can tell." 

" Is it possible ! astonishing ! from such a kind family ?" 

" Kind families get in debt, and the laws of our country allow them to 
sell the child out of its mother's bosom to pay its master's debts," said 
George bitterly. 

"Well, well," said the honest old man, fumbling in his pocket. "I 
s'pose, perhaps, I an't following my judgment — hang it, I wofiH follow my 
judgment!" he added suddenly; "so, here, George," and taking out a 
roll of bills from his pocket book, he offered them to George. 

"No, my kind, good sir!" said George. "You've done a great deal 
for me, and this might get you into trouble. I have money enough, I 
hope, to take me as far as I need it." 

" No, but you must, George. Money is a great help everywhere ; can't 
have too much, if you get it honestly. Take it — do take it, now — do, my 

" On condition, sir, that I may repay it at some future time, I will," said 
George, taking u^ the money. 


" And now, George, how long are you going to travel in this way ? — not 
long or far, I hope. It 's well carried on, but too bold. And this black 
fellow, who is he?" 

" A true fellow, who went to Canada more than a year ago. He heard, 
after he got there, that his master was so angry at him for going off, that 
he whipped his poor old mother ; and he has come all the way back to 
comfort her, and get a chance to get her away." 

"Has he got her?" 

" Not yet ; he has been hanging about the place, and found no chance 
yet. Meanwhile, he is going with me as far as Ohio, to put me among 
friends that helped him, and then he will come back after her." 

" Dangerous, very dangerous," said the old man. 

George drew himself up, and smiled disdainfully. 

The old gentleman eyed him from head to foot, with a sort of innocent 

"George, something has brought you out wonderfully. You hold up 
your head and speak and move like another man," said Mr. Wilson. 

" Because I 'm a free man /" said George proudly. " Yes, sir : I 've 
said ' Mas'r ' for the last time to any man. I'm free!" 

** Take care ! You are not sure — you may be taken." 

"All men are free and equal in the grave, if it comes to that, Mr. 
Wilson," said George. 

"I'm perfectly dumb-foundered with your boldness !" said Mr. Wilson. 
"To come right here to the nearest tavern !" 

" Mr. Wilson, it is so bold, and this tavern is so near, that they will 
never think of it ; they will look for me on ahead, and you yourself 
wouldn't know me. Jim's master don't live in this country; he isn't 
known in these parts. Besides, he is given up ; nobody is looking after 
him, and nobody will take me up from the advertisement, I think." 

"But the mark in your hand?" 

George drew off his glove, and showed a newly-healed scar in his hand. 

"That is a parting proof of Mr. Harris's regard," he said scornfully. 
" A fortnight ago he took it into his head to give it to me, because he 
said he believed I should try to get away one of these days. Looks 
interesting, doesn't it?" he said, drawing his glove on again. 

" I declare my very blood runs cold when I think of it — your condition 
and your risks ! " said Mr. Wilson. 

" Mine has run cold a good many years, Mr. Wilson ; at present, it 's 
about up to the boiling-point," said George. 

"Well, my good sir," continued George, after a few moments' silence, 
" I saw you knew me ; I thought I 'd just have this talk with you, lest 
your surprised looks should bring me out. I leave early to-morrow morning, 
before daylight ; by to-morrow night I hope to sleep safe in Ohio. I shall 
travel by daylight, stop at the best hotels, go to the dinner-tables with the 
lords of the land. So, good-bye, sir ; if you hear that I 'm taken, you 
may know that I 'm dead !" 

George stood up like a rock, and put out his hand with the air of a 
prince. The friendly little old man shook it heartily, and, after a little 
shower of caution, he took his umbrella, and fumbled his way out of the 

George stood thoughtfully looking at the door as the old man closed it. 
A thought seemed to flash across his mind. He hastily stepped to it, 
and, opening it, said — 


" Mr. Wilson, one word more." 

The old gentleman entered again, and George, as before, locked the 
door, and then stood for a few moments looking on the floor irresolutely. 
At last, raising his head with a sudden effort — 

" Mr. Wilson, you have shown yourself a Christian in your treatment of 
me — I want to ask one last deed of Christian kindness of you." 

"Well, George?" 

"Well, sir, what you said was true. I am running a dreadful risk. 
There isn't on earth a living soul to care if I die," he added, drawing his 
breath hard, and speaking with a great effort. " I shall be kicked out and 
buried like a dog, and nobody '11 think of it a day after — only my poor 
wife I Poor soul ! she '11 mourn and grieve ; and if you 'd only contrive, 
Mr. Wilson, to send this little pin to her ! — she gave it to me for a 
Christmas present, poor child ! Give it to her, and tell her I loved her to 
the last. Will you ? Will you ?" he added earnestly. 

"Yes, certainly; poor fellow!" said the old gentleman, taking the pin, 
with watery eyes, and a melancholy quiver in his voice. 

" Tell her one thing," said George ; " it 's my last wish, if she can get 
to Canada, to go there. No matter how kind her mistress is — no matter 
how much she loves her home : beg her not to go back — for slavery 
always ends in misery. Tell her to bring up our boy a free man, and 
then he won't suffer as I have. Tell her this, Mr. Wilson, will you?" 

"Yes, George, I'll tell her; but I trust you won't die. Take heart; 
you 're a brave fellow. Trust in the Lord, George. I wish in my heart 
you were safe through, though — that's what I do !" 

"/j there a God to trust in?" said George, in such a tone of bitter 
despair as arrested the old gentleman's words. " Oh, I 've seen things all 
my life that have made me feel that there can't be a God. You Christians 
don't know how these things look to us. There 's a God for you, but is 
there any for us ?" 

"Oh, now, don't — don't, my boy!" said the old man, almost sobbing 
as he spoke ; " don't feel so. There is — there is — ' Clouds and darkness 
are round about him, but righteousness and judgment are the habitation 
of his throne.' There 's a God, George — believe it ! Trust in him, and 
I 'm sure he '11 help you. Everything will be set right — if not in this life, 
in another." 

The real piety and benevolence of the simple old man invested him 
with a temporary dignity and authority as he spoke. George stopped his 
distracted walk up and down the room, stood thoughtfully a moment, and 
then said quietly — 

" Thank you for saying that, my good friend ; I '11 think of that.'' 



" In Ramah was there a voice heard — lamentation, and weeping, and great mourning, 
Rachel weeping for her children, and would not be comforted." 

Mr. Haley and Tom jogged onward in their waggon, each for a time 
absorbed in his own reflections. Now, the reflections of two men sitting 
side by side are a curious thing — seated on the same seat, having the same 
eyes, ears, hands, and organs of all sorts, and having pass before their 


eyes the same objects : it is wonderful what a variety we shall find in 
these same reflections ! 

As, for example, Mr. Haley: he thought first of Tom's length, and 
breadth, and height, and what he would sell for, if he was kept fat and in 
good case till he got him into market. He thought of how he should 
make out his gang ; he thought of the respective market value of certain 
supposititious men and women and children who were to compose it, and 
other kindred topics of the business ; then he thought of himself, and 
how humane he was, that whereas other men chained their "niggers" 
hand and foot both, he only put fetters on the feet, and left Tom the use 
of his hands as long as he behaved well; and he sighed to think how 
ungrateful human nature was, so that there was even room to doubt 
whether Tom appreciated his mercies. He had been taken in so by 
" niggers " whom he had favoured ; but still he was astonished to consider 
how good-natured he yet remained ! 

Ai- to Tom, he was thinking over some words of an unfashionable old 
book, which kept running through his head, again and again, as follows : — 
"We have here no continuing city, but seek for one to come; wherefore 
God himself is not ashamed to be called our God; for He hath prepared 
for us a city." These words of an ancient volume, got up principally by 
"ignorant and unlearned men," have, through all time, kept up, somehow, 
a strange sort of power over the minds of poor, simple fellows, like Tom. 
They stir up the soul from its depths, and rouse, as with trumpet-call, 
courage, energy, and enthusiasm, where before was only the blackness of 

Mr. Haley pulled out of his pocket sundry newspapers, and began 
looking over their advertisements, with absorbed interest. He was not a 
remarkably fluent reader, and was in the habit of reading in a sort of 
recitative, half-aloud, by way of calling in his ears to verify the deductions 
of his eyes. In this tone he slowly recited the following paragraph : — 

"Executors' Sale. — Negroes. — Agreeably to order of court, will be sold, on 
Tuesday, February 20, before the Court-house door, in the town of Washington, 
Kentucky, the following negroes : — Hagar, aged 60 ; John, aged 30 ; Ben, aged 21 ; 
Saul, aged 25 ; Albert, aged 14. Sold for the benefit of the creditors and heirs of the 
estate of Jesse Blutchford, Esq. "Samuel Morris, \ ^ , „ 

"Thomas Flint, ) ^^^^«^'^^- 

" This yer I must look at," said he to Tom, for want of somebody else 
to talk to. " Ye see, I am going to get up a prime gang to take down with 
ye, Tom ; it '11 make it sociable and pleasant like — good company will, ye 
know. We must drive right to Washington first and foremost, and then 
I '11 clap you into jail while I does the business." 

Tom received this agreeable intelligence quite meekly; simply wondering, 
in his own heart, how many of these doomed men had wives and children, 
and whether they would feel as he did about leaving them. It is to be 
confessed, too, that the naive, off-hand information that he was to be 
thrown into jail by no means produced an agreeable impression on a poor 
fellow who had always prided himself on a strictly honest and upright 
course of life. Yes, Tom, we must confess, was rather proud of his 
honesty, poor fellow^ — not having very much else to be proud of; if he 
had belonged to some of the higher walks of society, he, perhaps, would 
never have been reduced to such straits. However, the day wore on, and 
the evening saw Haley and Tom comfortably accommodated in Washing- 
ton — the one in a tavern, the other in a jail. 


About eleven o'clock the next day, a mixed throng was gathered around 
the court-house steps — smoking, chewing, spitting, swearing, and con- 
versing, according to their respective tastes and turns, waiting for the 
auction to commence. The men and women to be sold sat in a group 
apart, talking in a low tone to each other. The woman who had been 
advertised by the name of Hagar was a regular African in feature and 
figure. She might have been sixty, but was older than that by hard work 
and disease, was partially blind, and somewhat crippled with rheumatism. 
By her side stood her only remaining son, Albert, a bright-looking little 
fellow of fourteen years. The boy was the only survivor of a large family, 
who had been successively sold away from her to a southern market. The 
mother held on to him with both her shaking hands, and eyed with intense 
trepidation every one who walked up to examine him. 

" Don't be 'feard, Aunt Hagar," said the oldest of the men ; " I spoke 
to Mas'r Thomas 'bout it, and he thought he might manage to sell you in 
a lot both together." 

" Dey needn't call me worn-out yet," said she, lifting her shaking hands, 
" I can cook yet, and scrub, and scour — I 'm wuth buying, if I do come 
cheap ! tell 'em dat ar — you tell 'em," she added earnestly. 

Haley here forced his way into the group, walked up to the old man, 
pulled his mouth open and looked in, felt of his teeth, made him stand 
and straighten himself, bend his back, and perform various evolutions to 
show his muscles ; and then passed on to the next, and put him through 
the same trial. Walking up last to the boy, he felt of his arms, 
straightened his hands, and looked at his fingers, and made him jump 
to show his agility. 

" He an't gwine to be sold widout me ! " said the old woman, with 
passionate eagerness. "He and I goes in a lot together. I's rail strong 
yet, mas'r, and can do heaps o' work — heaps on it, mas'r." 

" On plantation ? " said Haley, with a contemptuous glance. " Likely 
story ! " and, as if satisfied with his examination, he walked out and looked, 
and stood with his hands in his pocket, his cigar in his mouth, and his hat 
cocked on one side, ready for action. 

"What think of 'em?" said a man who had been following Haley's 
examination, as if to make up his own mind from it. 

" Wal," said Haley, spitting, " I shall put in, I think, for the youngerly 
ones and the boy." 

" They want to sell the boy and the old woman together," said the man. 

" Find it a tight pull ; why, she 's an old rack o' bones — not worth her 

" You wouldn't, then ? " said the man. 

"Anybody 'd be a fool 't would. She's half blind, crooked with 
rheumatis, and foolish to boot." 

"Some buys up these yer old critturs, and ses there's a sight more 
wear in 'em than a body 'd think," said the man reflectively. 

" No go 't all," said Haley ; " wouldn't take her for a present. Fact ! 
I 've seen, now." 

"Wal, 'tis kinder pity, now, not to buy her with her son — her heart 
seems so sot on him; spose they fling her in cheap." 

" Them that 's got money to spend that ar way, it 's all well enough. I 
shall bid off" on that ar boy for a plantation-hand ; wouldn't be bothered 
with her, no way — not if they 'd give her to me," said Haley. 

" She '11 take on desp't," said the man. 


" Nat'lly, she will," said the trader coolly. 

The conversation was here interrupted by a busy hum in the audience ; 
and the auctioneer, a short, bustling, important fellow, elbowed his way 
into the crowd. The old woman drew in her breath, and caught in- 
stinctively at her son. 

" Keep close to yer mammy, Albert — close ! Dey'll put us up togedder,'* 
she said. 

" Oh, mammy, I 'm fear'd they won't ! " said the boy. 

"Dey must, child; I can't live, no ways, if they don't," said the old 
creature vehemently. 

The stentorian tones of the auctioneer, calling out to clear the way, 
now announced that the sale was about to commence. A place was 
cleared, and the bidding began. The different men on the list were soon 
knocked off at prices which showed a pretty brisk demand in the market : 
two of them fell to Haley. 

"Come, now, young un," said the auctioneer, giving the boy a touch 
with his hammer, "be up and show your springs, now." 

" Put us two up togedder, togedder — do, please, mas'r," said the old 
woman, holding fast to her boy. 

" Be off," said the man gruffly, pushing her hands away ; " you come 
last. Now, darky, spring " ; and, with the word, he pushed the boy 
toward the block, while a deep, heavy groan rose behind him. The boy 
paused, and looked back ; but there was no time to stay, and, dashing the 
tears from his large, bright eyes, he was up in a moment. 

His fine figure, alert limbs, and bright face raised an instant competition, 
and half a dozen bids simultaneously met the ear of the auctioneer. 
Anxious, half-frightened, he looked from side to side, as he heard the 
clatter of contending bids — now here, now there — till the hammer fell. 
Haley had got him. He was pushed from the block toward his new 
master, but stopped one moment, and looked back, when his poor old 
mother, trembling in every limb, held out her shaking hands toward him. 

*' Buy me too, mas'r ; for de dear Lord's sake ! Buy me — I shall die 
if you don't ! " 

" You '11 die if I do, that 's the kink of it," said Haley. " No ! " And 
he turned on his heel. 

The bidding for the poor old creature was summary. The man who had 
addressed Haley, and who seemed not destitute of compassion, bought 
her for a trifle, and the spectators began to disperse. 

The poor victims of the sale, who had been brought up in one place 
together for years, gathered round the despairing old mother, whose agony 
was pitiful to see. 

" Couldn't dey leave me one ? Mas'r allers said I should have one, he 
did," she repeated over and over, in heart-broken tones. 

" Trust in the Lord, Aunt Hagar," said the oldest of the men sorrow- 

*' What good will it do ? " said she, sobbing passionately. 

"Mother! mother! Don't! don't !" said the boy. "They say you 's 
got a good master." 

" I don't care — I don't care. Oh, Albert ! Oh, my boy ! you 's my last 
baby. Lord, how ken I ? " 

" Come, take her off, can't some of ye?" said Haley drily. " Don't do 
no good for her to go on that ar way." 

The <^<i men of the company, partly by persuasion and partly by force. 


loosed the poor creature's last despairing hold, and, as they led her off to 
her new master's waggon, strove to comfort her. 

" Now ! " said Haley, pushing his three purchases together, "and pro- 
ducing a bundle of handcuffs, which he proceeded to put on their wrists ; 
and fastening each handcuff to a long chain, he drove them before him to 
the jail. 

A few days saw Haley, with his possessions, safely deposited on one of 
the Ohio boats. It was the commencement of his gang, to be augmented, 
as the boat moved on, by various other merchandise of the same kind, 
which he, or his agent, had stored for him in various points along shore. 

The La Belle Riviere, as brave and beautiful a boat as ever walked the 
waters of her namesake river, was floating gaily down the stream, under a 
brilliant sky, the stripes and stars of free America waving and fluttering 
overhead; the guards crowded with well-dressed ladies and gentlemen 
walking and enjoying the delightful day. All was full of life, buoyant and 
rejoicing ; all but Haley's gang, who were stored, with other freight, on the 
lower deck, and who, somehow, did not seem to appreciate their various 
privileges, as they sat in a knot, talking to each other in low tones. 

" Boys," said Haley, coming up briskly, " I hope you keep up good 
heart, and are cheerful. Now, no sulks, ye see; keep stiff upper lip, boys; 
do well by me, and I '11 do well by you." 

The boys addressed responded the invariable " Yes, mas'r," for ages the 
watchword of poor Africa; but it is to be owned they did not look 
particularly cheerful. They had their various little prejudices in favour of 
wives, mothers, sisters, and children, seen for the last time; and though 
" they that wasted them required of them mirth," it was not instantly forth- 

" I 've got a wife," spoke out the article enumerated as " John, aged 
thirty," and he laid his chained hand on Tom's knee, "and she don't know 
a word about this, poor girl ! " 

" Where does she live ? " said Tom. 

" In a tavern a piece down here," said John. " I wish, now, I could see 
her once more in this world," he added. 

Poor John ! It was rather natural ; and the tears that fell, as he spoke, 
came as naturally as if he had been a white man. Tom drew a long breath 
from a sore heart, and tried, in his poor way, to comfort him. 

And overhead, in the cabin, sat fathers and mothers, husbands and 
wives ; and merry, dancing children moved round among them, like so 
many little butterflies, and everything was going on quite easy and 

" Oh mamma ! " said a boy, who had just come up from below, " there 's 
a negro-trader on board, and he 's brought four or five slaves down there." 

" Poor creatures ! " said the mother, in a tone between grief and 

" What 's that ? " said another lady. 

" Some poor slaves below," said the mother. 

" And they 've got chains on," said the boy. 

" What a shame to our country that such sights are to be seen ! " said 
another lady. 

" Oh, there 's a great deal to be said on both sides of the subject ! " said 
a genteel woman, who sat at her state-room door, sewing, while her little 
girl and boy were playing round her. " I 've been south, and I must say 
I think the negroes are better oif than they would be to be free." 


" In some respects, some of them are well off, I grant," said the lady to 
whose remark she had answered. " The most dreadful part of slavery, to 
my mind, is its outrages on the feelings and affections — the separating of 
families, for example." 

" That is a bad thing, certainly," said the other lady, holding up a baby's 
dress she had just completed, and looking intently on its trimmings ; " but 
then, I fancy, it don't occur often." 

" Oh, it does," said the first lady eagerly. " I 've lived many years in 
Kentucky and Virginia both, and I 've seen enough to make one's heart 
sick. Suppose, ma'am, your two children there should be taken from you 
and sold ? " 

" We can't reason from our feelings to those of this class of persons," 
said the other lady, sorting out some worsteds on her lap. 

" Indeed, ma'am, you can know nothing of them if you say so," answered 
the first lady warmly. " I was born and brought up among them. I know 
they do feel, just as keenly — even more so, perhaps — as we do." 

The lady said "Indeed !" yawned, and looked out of the cabin window, 
and finally repeated, for a finale, the remark with which she had begun — • 
"After all, I think they are better off than they would be to be free." 

"It's undoubtedly the intention of Providence that the African race 
should be servants — kept in a low condition," said a grave-looking gentle- 
man in black, a clergyman, seated by the cabin-door. " ' Cursed be 
Canaan ; a servant of servants shall he be,' the Scripture says." 

"I say, stranger, is that ar what that text means?" said a tall man 
standing by. 

" Undoubtedly. It pleased Providence, for some inscrutable reason, to 
doom the race to bondage ages ago ; and we must not set up our opinion 
against that." 

" Well, then, we '11 all go ahead, and buy up niggers," said the man, " if 
that's the way of Providence — won't we, squire?" said he, turning to 
Haley, who had been standing, with his hands in his pockets, by the stove, 
and intently listening to the conversation. 

"Yes," continued the tall man ; "we must all be resigned to the decrees 
of Providence. Niggers must be sold, and trucked round, and kept under; 
it 's what they 's made for. 'Pears hke this yer view 's quite refreshing, an't 
it, stranger ? " said he to Haley. 

" I never thought on 't," said Haley. " I couldn't have said as much 
myself; I hadn't no learning. I took up the trade just to make a Hving; 
if 'tan't right, I calculate to 'pent on't in time, ye know." 

"And now you'll save yerself the trouble, won't ye?" said the tall man. 
" See what 't is, now, to know Scripture. If ye 'd only studied yer Bible, 
like this yer good man, ye might have know'd it before, and saved ye a 
heap o' trouble. Ye could jist have said, ' Cussed be ' — what 's his name ? 
— and 'twould all have come right." And the stranger, who was no other 
than the honest drover whom we introduced to our readers in the Kentucky 
tavern, sat down, and began smoking, with a curious smile on his long, dry 

A tall, slender young man, with a face expressive of great feeling and 
intelligence, here broke in, and repeated the words, "'All things whatsoever 
ye would that men should do unto you, do ye even so unto them.' I 
suppose," he added, " that is Scripture, as much as ' Cursed be Canaan.' " 

" Wal, it seems quite as plain a text, stranger," said John the drover, 
" to poor fellows like us, now " j and John smoked on Uke a volcano. 


The young man paused, looked as if he was going to say more, when 
suddenly the boat stopped, and the company made the usual steamboat 
rush, to see where they were landing. 

" Both them ar chaps parsons ? " said John to one of the men, as they 
were going out. 

The man nodded. 

As the boat stopped, a black woman came running wildly up the plank, 
darted into the crowd, flew up to where the slave gang sat, and threw her 
arms round that unfortunate piece of merchandise before enumerated, "John, 
aged thirty," and, with sobs and tears, bemoaned him as her husband. 

But what needs tell the story, told too oft — every day told — of heart- 
strings rent and broken — the weak broken and torn for the profit and 
convenience of the strong ? It needs not to be told ; every day is telling 
it — telling it, too, in the ear of One who is not deaf, though he be long 

The young man who had spoken for the cause of humanity and God 
before stood, with folded arms, looking on this scene. He turned, and 
Haley was standing at his side. " My friend," he said, speaking with thick 
utterance, " how can you, how dare you, carry on a trade like this ? Look 
at those poor creatures ! Here I am, rejoicing in my heart that I am going 
home to my wife and child ; and the same bell which is a signal to carry 
me onward towards them, will part this poor man and his wife for ever.. 
Depend upon it, God will bring you into judgment for this." 

The trader turned away in silence. 

"I say, now," said the drover, touching his elbow, "there's differences 
in parsons, an't there ? ' Cussed be Canaan ' don't seem to go down with 
this un, does it?" 

Haley gave an uneasy growl. 

"And that ar an't the worst on't," said John; "mebbee it won't go 
down with the Lord, neither, when ye come to settle with Him, one o' 
these days, as all on us must, I reckon." 

Haley walked reflectively to the other end of the boat. 

" If I make pretty handsomely on one or two next gangs," he thought, 
" I reckon I '11 stop off this yer — it 's really getting dangerous ! " And he 
took out his pocket-book, and began adding over his accounts, a process 
which many gentlemen besides Mr. Haley have found a specific for an 
uneasy conscience. 

The boat swept proudly away from the shore, and all went on merrily as 
before. Men talked, and loafed, and read, and smoked. Women sewed, 
and children played, and the boat passed on her way. 

One day, when she lay-to for a while at a small town in Kentucky, 
Haley went up into the place on a little matter of business. 

Tom, whose fetters did not prevent his taking a moderate circuit, had 
drawn near the side of the boat, and stood listlessly gazing over the railings. 
After a time, he saw the trader returning, with an alert step, in company-: 
with a coloured woman, bearing in her arms a young child. She was 
dressed quite respectably, and a coloured man followed her, bringing along-; 
a small trunk. The woman came cheerfully onward, talking, as she came, 
with the man who bore her trunk, and so passed up the plank into the-' 
boat. The bell rang, the steamer whizzed, the engine groaned and coughed, 
and away swept the boat down the river. 

The woman walked forward among the boxes and bales of the lower 
deck, and, sitting down, busied herself with chirruping to her baby. 


Haley made a turn or two about the boat, and then, coming up, seated 
himself near her, and began saying something to her in an indifferent 

Tom soon noticed a heavy cloud passing over the woman's brow, and 
that she answered rapidly, and with great vehemence. 

"I don't believe it ! I won't believe it !" he heard her say. "You're 
jist a-foolin' with me." 

"If you won't believe it, look here!" said the man, drawing out a 
paper ; " this yer 's the bill of sale, and there 's your master's name to it ; 
and I paid down good solid cash for it, too, I can tell you — so now !" 

"I don't believe mas'r would cheat me so; it can't be true!" said the 
woman, with increasing agitation. 

"You can ask any of these men here that can read writing. Here!" he 
said to a man that was passing by, "jist read this yer, won't you? This 
yer gal won't believe me, when I tell her what 't is." 

"Why, it's a bill of sale, signed by John Fosdick," said the man, 
"making over to you the girl Lucy and her child. It's all straight 
enough, for aught I see." 

The woman's passionate exclamations collected a crowd around her, 
and the trader briefly explained to them the cause of the agitation. 

" He told me that I was going down to Louisville, to hire out as cook 
to the same tavern where my husband works ; that 's what mas'r told me 
his own self, and I can't believe he 'd lie to me," said the woman. 

"But he has sold you, my poor woman, there's no doubt about it," 
said a good-natured-looking man, who had been examining the papers; 
" he has done it, and no mistake." 

"Then it's no account talking," said the woman, suddenly growing 
quite calm ; and, clasping her child tighter in her arms, she sat down on 
her box, turned her back round, and gazed listlessly into the river. 

"Going to take it easy, after all!" said the trader. "Gal's got grit, I 

The woman looked calm as the boat went on ; and a beautiful, soft, 
summer breeze passed, like a compassionate spirit, over her head — the 
gentle breeze that never inquires whether the brow is dusky or fair that it 
fans. And she saw sunshine sparkling on the water, in golden rippleSJk 
and heard gay voices, full of ease and pleasure, talking around her 
everywhere ; but her heart lay as if a great stone had fallen on it. Her 
baby raised himself up against her, and stroked her cheeks with his little 
hands; and, springing up and down, crowing and chatting, seemed 
determined to arouse her. She strained him suddenly and tightly in her 
arms, and slowly one tear after another fell on his wondering, unconscious 
face ; and gradually she seemed, and little by Uttle, to grow calmer, and 
busied herself with tending and nursing him. 

The child, a boy of ten months, was uncommonly large and strong of 
his age, and very vigorous in his limbs. Never for a moment still, he 
kept his mother constantly busy in holding him, and guarding his 
springing activity. 

"That's a fine chap !" said a man, suddenly stopping opposite to him, 
with his hands in his pockets. " How old is he ?" 

"Ten months and a half," said the mother. 

The man whistled to the boy, and offered him part of a stick of candy, 
which he eagerly grabbed at, and very soon had it in a baby's general 
repository, to wit, his mouth. 


"Rum fellow !" said the man. " Knows what's what!" and he whistled 
and walked on. When he had got to the other side of the boat, he came 
across Haley, who was smoking on the top of a pile of boxes. 

The stranger produced a match, and lighted a cigar, saying, as he did 
so — 

" Decentish kind o' wench you 've got round there, stranger." 

" Why, I reckon she is tol'able fair," said Haley, blowing the smoke out 
of his mouth. 

"Taking her down south?" said the man. 

Haley nodded, and smoked on. 

"Plantation-hand?" said the man. 

"Wal," said Haley, "I'm filling out an order for a plantation, and I 
think I shall put her in. They tell me she was a good cook ; and they 
can use her for that, or set her at the cotton-picking. She 's got the right 
fingers for that; I looked at 'em. Sell well, either way"; and Haley 
resumed his cigar. 

" They won't want the young 'un on a plantation," said the man. 

" I shall sell him, first chance I find," said Haley, lighting another cigar. 

"S'pose you'd be selling him tol'able cheap?" said the stranger, 
mounting the pile of boxes, and sitting down comfortably. 

" Don't know 'bout that," said Haley ; he 's a pretty smart young un — 
straight, fat, strong ; flesh as hard as a brick ! " 

" Very true ; but then there 's all the bother and expense of raisin'." 

"Nonsense !" said Haley; "they is raised as easy as any kind of crittur 
there is going ; they ant a bit more trouble than pups. This yer chap 
will be runnin' all round in a month." 

"I've got a good place for raisin', and I thought of takin' in a little 
more stock," said the man. " One cook lost a young un last week — got 
drownded in the wash-tub, while she was a hangin' out clothes ; and I 
reckon it would be well enough to set her to raisin' this yer." 

Haley and the stranger smoked awhile in silence; neither seemed 
willing to broach the test question of the interview. At last the man 
resumed : — 

" You wouldn't think of wantin' more than ten dollars for that ar chap, 
seeing you must get him off yer hand, anyhow?" 

Haley shook his head, and spat impressively. 

" That won't do, noways," he said, and began his smoking again. 

" Well, stranger, what will you take ?" 

" Well, now," said Haley, " I could raise that ar chap myself, or get him 
raised; he's oncommon likely and healthy, and he'd fetch a hundred 
dollars six months hence ; and, in a year or two, he 'd bring two hundred, 
if I had him in the right spot ; so I shan't take a cent less nor fifty for 
him now." 

"Oh, stranger ! that's ridiculous altogether," said the man. 

"Fact !" said Haley, with a decisive nod of his head. 

" I '11 give thirty for him," said the stranger, " but not a cent more." 

" Now, I '11 tell ye what I '11 do," said Haley, spitting again, with 
renewed decision. "I'll split the difference, and say forty-five; and 
that's the most I will do." 

"Well, agreed !" said the man after an interval. 

" Done ! " said Haley. " Where do you land ?" 

" At Louisville," said the man. 

"Louisville," said Haley. "Very fair; we get there about dusk. Chap 


will be asleep — all fair — get him off quietly, and no screaming — happens 
beautiful — I like to do everything quietly — I hates all kind of agitation 
and fluster." And so, after a transfer of certain bills had passed from the 
man's pocket-book to the trader's, he resumed his cigar. 

It was a bright, tranquil evening when the boat stopped at the wharf at 
Louisville. The woman had been sitting with her baby in her arms, now 
wrapped in a heavy sleep. When she heard the name of the place called 
out, she hastily laid the child down in a little cradle formed by the hollow 
among the boxes, first carefully spreading under it her cloak; and then 
she sprang to the side of the boat, in hopes that, among the various 
hotel-waiters that thronged the wharf, she might see her husband.^ In this 
hope she pressed forward to the front rails, and stretching far over them, 
strained her eyes intently on the moving heads on the shore, and the 
crowd pressed in between her and the child. 

"Now's your time," said Haley, taking the sleeping child up, and 
handing him to the stranger. " Don't wake him up, and set him to 
crying now; it would make a devil of a fuss with the gal." The man 
took the bundle carefully, and was soon lost in the crowd that went up 
the wharf. 

When the boat, creaking, and groaning, and puffing, had loosed from 
the wharf, and was beginning slowly to strain herself along, the woman 
returned to her old seat. The trader was sitting there — the child was 

"Why, why— where?" she began, in bewildered surprise. 

" Lucy," said the trader, " your child 's gone ; you may as well know it 
first as last. You see, I know'd you couldn't take him down South ; and 
I got a chance to sell him to a first-rate family, that'll raise him better 
than you can." 

The trader had arrived at that stage of Christian and political perfection 
which has been recommended by some preachers and politicians of the 
North, lately, in which he had completely overcome every humane 
weakness and prejudice. His heart was exactly where yours, sir, and 
mine could be brought, with proper effort and cultivation. The wild 
look of anguish and utter despair that the woman cast on him might have 
disturbed one less practised ; but he was used to it. He had seen that 
same look hundreds of times. You can get used to such things, too, my 
friend ; and it is the great object of recent efforts to make our whole 
northern community used to them, for the glory of the Union. So the 
trader only regarded the mortal anguish which he saw working in those 
dark features, those clenched hands, and suffocating breathings, as 
necessary incidents of the trade, and merely calculated whether she was 
going to scream, and get up a commotion on the boat; for, like other 
supporters of our peculiar institutions, he decidedly disliked agitation. 

But the woman did not scream. The shot had passed too straight ancj 
direct through the heart for cry or tear. 

Dizzily she sat down. Her slack hands fell lifeless by her side. Her 
eyes looked straight forward, but she saw nothing. All the noise and hum of 
the boat, the groaning of the machinery, mingled dreamily to her 
bewildered ear; and the poor, dumb-stricken heart had neither cry nor 
tear to show for its utter misery. She was quite calm. 

The trader, who, considering his advantages, was almost as humane 
as some of our politicians, seemed to feel called on to administer such 
consolation as the case admitted of. 


" I know this yer comes kinder hard, at first, Lucy," said he : " but such 
a smart, sensible gal as you are won't give way to it. You see it's 
necessary, and can't be helped." 

" Oh, don't, mas'r, don't ! " said the woman, with a voice like one that 
is smothering. 

"You're a smart wench, Lucy," he persisted. "I mean to do well 
by ye, and get ye a nice place down river ; and you '11 soon get another 
husband — such a likely gal as you " 

"Oh, mas'r, if you only won't talk to me now," said the woman in 
a voice of such quick and living anguish, that the trader felt that there was 
something at present in the case beyond his style of operation. He got 
up, and the woman turned away, and buried her head in her cloak. 

The trader walked up and down for a time, and occasionally stopped 
and looked at her. 

"Takes it hard, rather," he soliloquised, "but quiet, tho'. Let her 
sweat a while ; she '11 come right by-and-by ! " 

Tom had watched the whole transaction from first to last, and had 
a perfect understanding of its results. To him it looked like something 
unutterably horrible and cruel, because, poor, ignorant, black soul ! he 
had not learned to generalize, and to take enlarged views. If he had only 
been instructed by certain ministers of Christianity, he might have thought 
better of it, and seen in it an every-day incident of a lawful trade — a trade 
which is the vital support of an institution which an American divine* 
tells us has "«^ evils but such as are inseparable from any other relations in>. 
social and domestic life." But Tom, as we see, being a poor, ignorant 
fellow, whose reading had been confined entirely to the New Testament, 
could not comfort and solace himself with views like these. His very soul 
bled within him for what seemed to him the wrongs of the poor suffering . 
thing that lay like a crushed weed on the boxes; the feeling, living, 
bleeding, yet immortal thing, which American state law coolly classes with 
the bundles, and bales, and boxes, among which she is lying. 

Tom drew near, and tried to say something; but she only groaned. 
Honestly, and with tears running down his own cheeks, he spoke of 
a heart of love in the skies, of a pitying Jesus, and an eternal home ; but 
the ear was deaf with anguish, and the palsied heart could not feel. 

Night came on — night, calm, unmoved, and glorious, shining down 
with her innumerable and solemn angel-eyes, twinkling, beautiful, but 
silent. There was no speech nor language, no pitying voice or helping 
hand, from that distant sky. One after another, the voices of business or 
pleasure died away; all on the boat were sleeping, and the ripples at 
the prow were plainly heard. Tom stretched himself out on a box, and 
there, as he lay, he heard, ever and anon, a smothered sob or cry from 
the prostrate creature — " Oh, what shall I do ? O Lord ! O good Lord, 
do help me ! " and so, ever and anon, until the murmur died away in 

After midnight Tom waked with a sudden start. Something black 
passed quickly by him to the side of the boat, and he heard a splash in 
the water. No one else saw or heard anything. He raised his head — the 
woman's place was vacant ! He got up and sought about in vain. The 
poor bleeding heart was still at last, and the river rippled and dimpled just 
as brightly as if it had not closed above it. 

Patience ! patience ! ye whose hearts swell indignant at wrongs like 

* Dr. Joel Parker, of Philadelphia. 



these. Not one throb of anguish, not one tear of the oppressed, is 
forgotten by the Man of Sorrows, the Lord of Glory. In his patient, ^ 

generous bosom he bears the anguish of a world. Bear thou, like him, in • 
patience, and labour in love ; for, sure as he is God, " the year of his ' 
redeemed sM// come." 

The trader waked up bright and early, and came out to see to his 
live stock. It was now his turn to look about in perplexity. 

" Where alive is that gal ? " he said to Tom. 

Tom, who had learned the wisdom of keeping counsel, did not feel 
called on to state his observations and suspicions, but said he did not 

" She surely couldn't have got off in the night at any of the landings, 
for I was awake, and on the look-out, whenever the boat stopped. I 
never trust these yer things to other folks." 

This speech was addressed to Tom quite confidentially, as if it was 
something that would be specially interesting to him. Tom made no 

The trader searched the boat from stem to stern, among boxes, bales, 
and barrels, around the machinery, by the chimneys, in vain. 

"Now, I say, Tom, be fair about this yer," he said, when, after a 
fruitless search, he came where Tom was standing. "You know some- 
thing about it, now. Don't tell me — I know you do. I saw the gal 
stretched out here about ten o'clock, and ag'in at twelve, and ag'in 
between one and two; and then at four she was gone, and you was 
a sleeping right there all the time. Now, you know something — you can't 
help it." 

" Well, mas'r," said Tom, " towards morning something brushed by me, 
and I kinder half woke ; and then I hearn a great splash, and then I clare 
woke up, and the gal was gone. That 's all I know on 't." 

The trader was not shocked nor amazed ; because, as we said before, he 
was used to a great many things that you are not used to. Even the 
awful presence of Death struck no solemn chill upon him. He had seen 
death many times — met him in the way of trade and got acquainted with 
him — and he only thought of him as a hard customer, that embarrassed his 
property-operations very unfairly ; and so he only swore that the gal was a 
baggage, and that he was devilish unlucky, and that, if things went on 
in this way, he should not make a cent on the trip. In short, he seemed 
to consider himself an ill-used man, decidedly ; but there was no help for 
it, as the woman had escaped into a State which //ever will give up 
a fugitive — not even at the demand of the whole glorious Union. The 
trader, therefore, sat discontentedly down, with his little account-book, 
and put down the missing body and soul under the head of " losses " / 

" He 's a shocking creature, isn't he — this trader ? so unfeeling ! It 's 
dreadful, really ! " 

" Oh, but nobody thinks anything of these traders ! They are univers- 
ally despised — never received into any decent society." 

But who, sir, makes the trader ? Who is most to blame ? the enlightened, 
cultivated, intelligent man, who supports the system of which the trader is 
the inevitable result, or the poor trader himself? You make the public 
sentiment that calls for his trade, that debauches and depraves him, till he 
feels no shame in it ; and in what are you better than he ? 

Are you educated and he ignorant, you high and he low, you refined 
and he cdat^ you toiented a«d tets awvpAt! ? 


In the day of a future judgment these very considerations may make it 
Giore tolerable for him than for you. 

In concluding these little incidents of lawful trade, we must beg the 
Wbrld not to think that American legislators are entirely destitute of 
humanity, as might, perhaps, be unfairly inferred from the great efforts 
made in our national body to protect and perpetuate this species of 

Who does not know how our great men are outdoing themselves in 
declaiming against the foreign slave-trade ? There are a perfect host of 
Clarksons and Wilberforces risen up among us on that subject most 
edifying to hear and behold. Trading negroes from Africa, dear reader, 
is so horrid ! It is not to be thought of ! But trading them from Kentucky 
— that 's quite another thing ! 



A QUIET scene now rises before us. A large, roomy, neatly-painted 
kitchen, its yellow floor glossy and smooth, and without a particle of dust j 
a neat, well-blacked cooking-stove ; rows of shining tin, suggestive of un- 
mentionable good things to the appetite ; glossy green wood chairs, old and 
firm ; a small flag-bottomed rocking-chair, with a patchwork cushion in it, 
neatly contrived out of small pieces of different coloured woollen goods, 
and a larger-sized one, motherly and old, whose wide arms breathed 
hospitable invitation, seconded by the solicitations of its feather cushions 
—a real, comfortable, persuasive old chair, and worth in the way of 
honest, homely enjoyment, a dozen of your plush or brochetelle drawing- 
toom gentry ; and in the chair, gently swaying backward and forward, her 
eyes bent on some fine sewing, sat our old friend Eliza. Yes, there 
she is, paler and thinner than in her Kentucky home, with a world of 
quiet sorrow lying under the shadow of her long eye lashes, and marking 
the outline of her gentle mouth ! It was plain to see how old and firm 
the girlish heart was grown under the discipline of heavy sorrow; and 
when, anon, her large dark eye was raised to follow the gambols of her 
little Harry, who was sporting, like some tropical butterfly, hither and 
thither over the floor, she showed a depth of firmness and steady resolve 
that was never there in her earlier and happier days. 

By her side sat a woman with a bright tin pan in her lap, into 
which she was carefully sorting some dried peaches. She might be fifty- 
five or sixty ; but hers was one of those faces that time seems to touch 
only to brighten and adorn. The snowy lisse crape cap, made after 
the straight Quaker pattern, the plain white muslin handkerchief, lying 
in placid folds across her bosom, the drab shawl and dress, showed at 
once the community to which she belonged. Her face was round and 
rosy, with a healthful downy softness, suggestive of a ripe peach. Her 
hair, partially silvered by age, was parted smoothly back from a high 
placid forehead, on which time had written no inscription except " peace 
on earth, good will to men '' ; and beneath shone a large pair of clear, 
honest, loving brown eyes : you only needed to look straight into them, 
to feel that you saw to the bottom of a heart as good and true as ever 
throbbed in woman's bosom. So m"iiT;h has b6en said and' song- of 



beautiful young girls; why don't somebody wake up to the beauty of 
old women ? If any want to get up an inspiration under this head, we 
refer them to our good friend Rachel Halliday, just as she sits there in 
her little rocking-chair. It had a turn for quacking and squeaking — that 
chair had — either from having taken cold in early life, or from some 
asthmatic affection, or perhaps from nervous derangement; but, as she 
gently swung backward and forward, the chair kept up a kind of subdued 
" creechy crawchy," that would have been intolerable in any other chair. 
But old Simeon Halliday often declared it was as good as any music 
to him, and the children all avowed that they wouldn't miss of hearing 
mother's chair for anything in the world. For why ? For twenty years or 
more, nothing but loving words, and gentle moralities, and motherly 
loving-kindness, had come from that chair — head-aches and heart-aches 
innumerable had been cured there — difficulties spiritual and temporal 
solved there — all by one good, loving woman, God bless her. 

" And so thee still thinks of going to Canada, Eliza ? " she said, as she 
was quietly looking over her peaches. 

"Yes, ma'am," said Eliza firmly. "I must go onward. I dare not 

" And what '11 thee do when thee gets there ? Thee must think about 
that, my daughter." 

" My daughter," came naturally from the lips of Rachel Halliday ; for 
hers was just the face and form that made "mother" seem the most 
natural word in the world. 

Eliza's hands trembled, and some tears fell on her fine work ; but she 
answered firmly — 

" I shall do anything I can find. I hope I can find something." 

"Thee knows thee can stay here as long as thee pleases," said Rachel. 

"Oh, thank you," said Eliza, "but" — she pointed to Harry — "I can't 
sleep nights ; I can't rest. Last night I dreamed I saw that man coming 
into the yard," she said, shuddering. 

" Poor child ! " said Rachel, wiping her eyes ; " but thee mustn't feel so. 
The Lord hath ordered it so that never hath a fugitive been stolen from 
our village. I trust thine will not be the first." 

The door here opened, and a little short, round, pincushiony woman 
stood at the door, with a cheery, blooming face, like a ripe apple. She 
was dressed, like Rachel, in sober grey, with the muslin folded neatly 
across her round, plump little chest. 

" Ruth Stedman," said Rachel, coming joyfully forward ; " how is thee, 
Ruth ? " she said, heartily taking both her hands. 

"Nicely," said Ruth, taking off her little drab bonnet, and dusting it 
with her handkerchief, displaying, as she did so, a round little head, on 
which the Quaker cap sat with a sort of jaunty air, despite all the stroking 
and patting of the small fat hands which were busily applied to arranging 
it. Certain stray locks of decidedly curly hair, too, had escaped here and 
there, and had to be coaxed and cajoled into their place again ; and then 
the new comer, who might have been five-and-t\venty, turned from the 
small looking-glass, before which she had been making these arrange- 
ments, and looked well pleased — as most people who looked at her might 
have been ; for she was decidedly a wholesome, whole-hearted, chirruping 
little woman, as ever gladdened man's heart withal. 
. , " Ruth, this friend is Eliza Harris i and this is the little boy I told thiee 


"I am glad to see thee, Eliza — very," said Ruth, shaking hands, as if 
Eliza were an old friend she had long been expecting ; " and this is thy 
dear boy — I brought a cake for him," she said, holding out a little heart to 
the boy, who came up, gazing through his curls, and accepted it shyly. 

" Where 's thy baby, Ruth ? " said Rachel. 

" Oh, he 's coming ; but thy Mary caught him as I came in, and ran off 
with him to the barn, to show him to the children." 

At this moment the door opened, and Mary, an honest, rosy-looking 
girl, with large brown eyes, like her mother's, came in with the baby. 

"Ah! ha!" said Rachel, coming up, and taking the great, white, fat 
fellow in her arms ; " how good he looks, and how he does grow ! " 

" To be sure he does," said little bustling Ruth, as she took the child, 
and began taking off a little blue silk hood and various layers and 
wrappers of outer garments ; and having given a twitch here, and a pull 
there, and variously adjusted and arranged him, and kissed him heartily, 
she set him on the floor to collect his thoughts. Baby seemed quite used 
to this mode of proceeding, for he put his thumb in his mouth (as if it 
were quite a thing of course) and seemed soon absorbed in his own 
reflections, while the mother seated herself, and, taking out a long stock- 
ing of mixed blue and white yarn, began to knit with briskness. 

" Mary, thee 'd better fill the kettle, hadn't thee ? " gently suggested the 

Mary took the kettle to the well, and, soon re-appearing, placed it over 
the stove, where it was soon purring and steaming — a sort of censer of 
hospitality and good cheer. The peaches, moreover, in obedience to a 
few gentle whispers from Rachel, were soon deposited, by the same hand, 
in a stew-pan over the fire. 

Rachel now took down a snowy moulding-board, and, tying on an 
apron, proceeded quietly to make up some biscuits, first saying to Mary, 
" Mary, hadn't thee better tell John to get a chicken ready ? " and Mary 
disappeared accordingly. 

"And how is Abigail Peters?" said Rachel, as she went on with her 

" Oh, she 's better," said Ruth ; " I was in this morning ; made the bed, 
tidied up the house. Leah Hills went in this afternoon, and baked bread 
and pies enough to last some days ; and I engaged to go back to get her 
up this evening." 

" I will go in to-morrow, and do any cleaning there may be, and look 
over the mending," said Rachel. 

"Ah! that is well," said Ruth. "I've heard," she added, "that 
Hannah Stanwood is sick. John was up there last night — I must go there 

"John can come in here to his meals, if thee needs to stay all day," 
suggested Rachel. 

" Thank thee, Rachel ; we '11 see to-morrow ; but here comes Simeon." 

Simeon Halliday, a tall, straight, muscular man, in drab coat and 
pantaloons, and broad-brimmed hat, now entered. 

" How is thee, Ruth ? " he said, warmly, as he spread his broad open 
hand for her Uttle fat palm ; " and how is John ? " 

" Oh, John is well, and all the rest of our folks," said Ruth cheerily. 

" Any news, father ? " said Rachel, as she was putting her biscuits into 
the oven. 

"Prefer ^tebbinb totd mt Ibat thefy shb'utd be aldn^ tb-night^ with 


friends,^' said Simeon significantly, as he was washing his hands at a neat 
sink, in a httle back porch. 

" Indeed ! " said Rachel, looking thoughtfully, and glancing at Eliza. 

" Did thee say thy name was Harris ? " said Simeon to Eliza, as he 

Rachel glanced quickly at her husband, as Eliza tremulously answered 
" Yes " ; her fears, ever uppermost, suggested that possibly there might be 
advertisements out for her. 

" Mother ! " said Simeon, standing in the porch, and calling Rachel out. 

" What does thee want, father ? " said Rachel, rubbing her floury hands, 
as she went into the porch. 

" This child's husband is in the settlement, and will be here to-night," 
said Simeon. 

" Now, thee doesn't say that, father ? " said Rachel, all her face radiant 
with joy. 

" It 's really true. Peter was down yesterday, with the waggon, to the 
other stand ; and there he found an old woman and two men, and one 
said his name was George Harris ; and, from what he told of his history, 
I am certain who he is. He is a bright, likely fellow, too." 

"Shall we tell her now?" 

" Let 's tell Ruth," said Rachel. " Here, Ruth !— come here ! " 

Ruth laid down her knitting-work, and was in the back porch in a 

"Ruth, what does thee think?" said Rachel. "Father says Eliza's 
husband is in the last company, and will be here to-night ! " 

A burst of joy from the little Quakeress interrupted the speech. She 
gave such a bound from the floor, as she clapped her little hands, that 
two stray curls fell from under her Quaker cap, and lay brightly on her 
white neckerchief. 

" Hush thee, dear ! " said Rachel gently ; " hush, Ruth ! Tell us, shall 
we tell her now ? " 

" Now ! to be sure, this very minute ! Why, now, suppose 't was my 
John, how should I feel ? Do tell her right off"." 

"Thee uses thyself only to learn how to love thy neighbour, Ruth," 
said Simeon, looking, with a beaming face, on Ruth. 

" To be sure. Isn't it what we are made for ? If I didn't love John 
and the baby, I should not know how to feel for her. Come, now, do 
tell her — do ! " and she laid her hands persuasively on Rachel's arm. 
" Take her into thy bedroom, there, and let me fry the chicken while thee 
does it." 

Rachel came out into the kitchen, where Eliza was sewing, and, opening 
the door of a small bedroom, said gently, " Come in here with me, my 
daughter ; I have news to tell thee." 

The blood flushed in Eliza's pale face ; she rose, trembling with nervous 
anxiety, and looked towards her boy. 

" No, no ! " said httle Ruth, darting up and seizing her hands. 
" Never thee fear ; it 's good news, EUza — go in, go in ! " And she 
gently pushed her to the door, which closed after her; and then, 
turning round, she caught little Harry in her arms, and began kissing 

" Thee '11 see thy father, little one ! Does thee know it ? Thy father 
is coming," she said Qv^^ and over agajn^ as the boy looked wonderingly 
si Hbs* 


Meanwhile, within the door, another scene was going on. Rachel 
Halliday drew Eliza toward her, and said, "The Lord hath had mercy 
on thee, daughter; thy husband hath escaped from the house of 

The blood flushed to EUza's cheek in a sudden glow, and went back to 
her heart with as sudden a rush. She sat down, pale and faint. 

"Have courage, child," said Rachel, laying her hand on her head. 
" He is among friends, who will bring him here to-night." 

" To-night ! " Eliza repeated, " to-night ! " The words lost all meaning 
to her ; her head was dreamy and confused ; all was mist for a moment. 

When she awoke, she found herself snugly tucked up on the bed, with 
a blanket over her, and little Ruth rubbing her hands with camphor. She 
opened her eyes in a state of dreamy, delicious languor, such as one has 
who has long been bearing a heavy load, and now feels it gone, and would 
rest. The tension of the nerves, which had never ceased a moment since 
the first hour of her flight, had given way, and a strange feeling of security 
and rest came over her; and, as she lay, with her large dark eyes open, 
she followed, as in a quiet dream, the motions of those about her. She 
saw the door open into the other room; saw the supper-table, with its 
snowy cloth; heard the dreamy murmur of the singing tea-kettle; saw 
Ruth tripping backward and forward, with plates of cake and saucers 
of preserves, and ever and anon stopping to put a cake into Harry's hand, 
or pat his head, or twine his long curls round her snowy fingers. She saw 
the ample, motherly form of Rachel, as she ever and anon came to the 
bedside, and smoothed and arranged something about the bedclothes, and 
gave a tuck here and there, by way of expressing her goodwill ; and was 
conscious of a kind of sunshine beaming down upon her from her large, 
clear, brown eyes. She saw Ruth's husband come in — saw her fly up to 
him, and commence whispering very earnestly, ever and anon, with 
impressive gesture, pointing her little finger towards the room. She saw 
her, with the baby in her arms, sitting down to tea ; she saw them all at 
table, and little Harry in ' a high chair, under the shadow of Rachel's 
ample wing ; there were low murmurs of talk, gentle tinkling of teaspoons, 
and musical clatter of cups and saucers, and all mingled in a delightful 
dream of rest; and Eliza slept as she had not slept before, since the 
fearful midnight hour when she had taken her child and fled through the 
frosty starlight. 

She dreamed of a beautiful country — a land, it seemed to her, of rest — 
green shores, pleasant islands, and beautifully glittering water ; and there, 
in a house which kind voices told her was a home, she saw her boy 
playing, a free and happy child. She heard her husband's footsteps ; she 
felt him coming nearer ; his arms were around her, his tears falling on her 
face, and she awoke ! It was no dream. The daylight had long faded ; 
her child lay calmly sleeping by her side ; a candle was burning dimly on 
the stand, and her husbapd was sobbing by her pillow. 


The next morning was a cheerful one at the Quaker house. " Mother " 
was up betimes, and surrounded by busy girls and boys, whom we had 
scarce time to introduce to our readers yesterday, and who all moved 
obediently to Rachel's gentle " Thee had better," or more gentle " Hadn't 
thee better ? " in the work of getting breakfast ; for a breakfast in the 
luxurious valleyB of Indiana is a thing compHcated and multiform, and. 


like picking up the rose-leaves and trimming the bushes in Paradise, 
asking other hands than those of the original mother. While, therefore, 
John ran to the spring for fresh water, and Simeon the second sifted meal 
for corn-cakes, and Mary ground coffee, Rachel moved gently and quietly 
about, making biscuits, cutting up chicken, and diffusing a sort of sunny 
radiance over the whole proceeding generally. If there was any danger of 
friction or collision from the ill-regarded zeal of so many young operators, 
her gentle " Come ! come ! " or " I wouldn't, now," was quite sufficient to 
allay the difficulty. Bards have written of the cestus of Venus, that 
turned the heads of all the world in successive generations. We had 
rather, for our part, have the cestus of Rachel Halliday, that kept heads 
from being turned, and made everything go on harmoniously. We think 
it is more suited to our modern days, decidedly. 

While all other preparations were going on, Simeon the elder stood in 
his shirt-sleeves before a little looking-glass in the corner, engaged in the 
anti-patriarchal occupation of shaving. Everything went on so socially, so 
quietly, so harmoniously, in the great kitchen — it seemed so pleasant to 
every one to do just what they were doing, there was such an atmosphere 
of mutual confidence and good-fellowship everywhere — even the knives 
and forks had a social clatter as they went on to the table; and the 
chicken and ham had a cheerful and joyous frizzle in the pan, as if they 
rather enjoyed being cooked than otherwise ; and when George and Eliza 
and little Harry came out, they met with such a hearty, rejoicing welcome, 
no wonder it seemed to them like a dream. 

At last they were all seated at breakfast, while Mary stood at the stove, 
baking griddle-cakes, which, as they gained the true exact golden-brown 
tint of perfection, were transferred quite handily to the table. 

Rachel never looked so truly and benignly happy as at the head of her 

There was so much motherliness and full - heartedness even va, the 
way she passed a plate of cake, or poured a cup of coffee, that it seemed 
to put a spirit into the food and drink she offered. 

It was the first time that ever George had sat down on equal terms at 
any white man's table ; and he sat down, at first, with some constraint and 
awkwardness ; but they all exhaled and went off like fog in the genial 
morning rays of this simple, overflowing kindness. 

This, indeed, was a home — home — a word that George had never yet 
known a meaning for ; and a beHef in God, and trust in his providence, 
began to encircle his heart as with a golden cloud of protection and 
confidence — dark, misanthropic, pining, atheistic doubts, and fierce 
despair, melted away before the light of a living Gospel, breathed in 
living faces, preached by a thousand unconscious acts of love and good- 
will, which, like the cup of cold water given in the name of a disciple, 
shall never lose their reward. 

"Father, what if thee should get found out again?" said Simeon 
Second, as he buttered his cake. 

" I should pay my fine," said Simeon quietly. 

" But what if they put thee in prison ? " 

*' Couldn t thee and mother manage the farm ? " said Simeon, smiling. 

" Mother can do almost everything," said the boy. " But isn't it a 
shame to make such laws ? " 

"Thee mustnt speak evil of thy rulers, Simeon," said his fathei: 
graVely. "The 'Lord only gives us our worldly goods that Nve may db 


justice and mercy; if our rulers require a price of us for it, we must 
deliver it up." 

" Well, I hate those old slaveholders ! " said the boy, who felt as 
unchristian as became any modern reformer. 

" I am surprised at thee, son," said Simeon ; " thy mother never taught 
thee so. I would do even the same for the slaveholder as for the slave, if 
the Lord brought him to my door in affliction." 

Simeon Second blushed scarlet ; but his mother only smiled, and said, 
" Simeon is my good boy ; he will grow older by-and-by, and then he will 
be like his father." 

" I hope, my good sir, that you are not exposed to any difficulty on our 
account," said George anxiously. 

"Fear nothing, George, for therefore are we sent into the world. If 
we would not meet trouble for a good cause, we were not worthy of our 

" But, for nie^^ said George, I could not bear it." 

"Fear not, then, friend George; it is not for thee, but for God and 
man we do it," said Simeon. "And now thou must lie by quietly this 
day ; and to-night, at ten o'clock, Phineas Fletcher will carry thee onward 
to the next stand — thee and the rest of thy company. The pursuers are 
hard after thee ; we must not delay." 

" If that is the case, why wait till evening ? " said George. 

"Thou art safe here by daylight, for every one in the settlement is a 
Friend, and all are watching. Moreover, it is safer to travel by night." 



A young star ! which shone 
O'er life — too sweet an image for such glass ! 
A lovely being, scarcely formed or moulded; 
A rose with all its sweetest leaves yet folded. 

The Mississippi ! How, as by an enchanted wand, have its scenes 
been changed since Chateaubriand wrote his prose-poetic description of it, 
as a river of mighty, unbroken solitudes, rolling amid undreamed wonders 
of vegetable and animal existence. 

But, as in an hour, this river of dreams and wild romance has emerged 
to a reality scarcely less visionary and splendid. What other river of the 
world bears on its bosom to the ocean the wealth and enterprise of such 
another country? — a country whose products embrace all between the 
tropics and the poles ! Those turbid waters, hurrying, foaming, tearing 
along, an apt resemblance of that headlong tide of business which is 
poured along its wave by a race more vehement and energetic than any 
the old world ever saw. Ah ! would that they did not also bear along 
a more fearful freight — the tears of the oppressed, the sighs of the helpless, 
the bitter prayers of poor, ignorant hearts to an unknown God — unknown, 
unseen, and silent, but who will yet " come out of his place to save all the 
poor of the earth " ! 

The planting light of the setting sun quivers on the sea-like expanse 
oi" thb riVer; thb sMvieiry datii^, and tbe Ml, dark eypresa, hung with 


wreaths of dark, funeral moss, glow in the golden ray, as the heavily-laden 
steamboat marches onward ! 

Piled with cotton-bales, from many a plantation, up over deck and 
sides, till she seems in the distance a square, massive, block of grey, she 
moves heavily onward to the nearing mart. We must look some time 
among its crowded decks before we shall find again our humble friend 
Tom. High on the upper deck, in a little nook among the everywhere 
predominant cotton-bales, at last we may find him. 

Partly from the confidence inspired by Mr. Shelby's representations, 
and partly from the remarkably inoffensive and quiet character of the man, 
Tom had insensibly won his way far into the confidence even of such 
a man as Haley. 

At first he had watched him narrowly through the day, and never allowed 
him to sleep at night unfettered; but the uncomplaining patience and 
apparent contentment of Tom's manner led him gradually to discontinue 
these restraints, and for some time Tom had enjoyed a sort of parole 
of honour, being permitted to come and go freely where he pleased on 
the boat. 

Ever quiet and obliging, and more than ready to lend a hand in every 
emergency which occurred among the workmen below, he had won the 
good opinion of all the hands, and spent many hours in helping them with 
as hearty a goodwill as ever he worked on a Kentucky farm. 

When there seemed to be nothing for him to do, he would climb to a 
nook among the cotton-bales of the upper deck, and busy himself in 
studying over his Bible — and it is there we see him now. 

For a hundred or more miles above New Orleans, the river is higher 
than the surrounding country, and rolls its tremendous volume between 
massive levees twenty feet in height. The traveller from the deck of the 
steamer, as from some floating castle-top, overlooks the whole country 
for miles and miles around. Tom, therefore, had spread out full before 
him, in plantation after plantation, a map of the life to which he was 

He saw the distant slaves at their toil; he saw afar their villages of 
huts gleaming out in long rows on many a plantation, distant from the 
stately mansion and pleasure-grounds of the master; and as the moving 
picture passed on, his poor foolish heart would be turning backward to the 
Kentucky farm, with its old shadowy beeches, to the master's house, with 
its wide, cool halls, and near by the little cabin, overgrown with the multi- 
flora and bignonia. There he seemed to see familiar faces of comrades, 
who had grown up with him from infancy ; he saw his busy wife, bustling 
in her preparations for his evening meals ; he heard the merry laugh of 
his boys at their play, and the chirrup of the baby at his knee, and then, 
with a start, all faded, and he saw again the cane-brakes and cypresses 
of gliding plantations, and heard again the creaking and groaning of the 
machinery, all telling him too plainly that all that phase of life had gone 
by for ever. 

In such a case, you write to your wife, and send messages to your 
children ; but Tom could not write — the mail for him had no existence, 
and the gulf of separation was unbridged by even a friendly word or signal. 

Is it strange, then, that some tears fall on the pages of his Bible, as 
he lays it on the cotton-bale, and with patient finger, threading his slow 
way from word to word, traces out its promises ? Having learned late in 
life, Tom was but a slow reader, and passed on laboriously from verse 


to verse. Fortunate was it for him that the book he was intent on was 
one which slow reading cannot injure — nay, one whose words, Hke ingots 
of gold, seem often to need to be weighed separately, that the mind may 
take in their priceless value. Let us follow him a moment, as, pointing to 
each word, and pronouncing each half-aloud, he reads — 

" Let — not — your — heart — be — troubled. In — my — Father's — house — 
are — many — mansions. I — go — to — prepare — a — ^place — for — you." 

Cicero, when he buried his darling and only daughter, had a heart 
as full of honest grief as poor Tom's — perhaps no fuller, for both were 
only men ; but Cicero could pause over no such sublime words of hope, 
and look to no such future reunion ; and if he had seen them, ten to one 
he would not have believed — he must fill his head first with a thousand 
questions of authenticity of manuscript, and correctness of translation. 
But to poor Tom, there it lay, just what he needed, so evidently true and 
divine that the possibility of a question never entered his simple head. 
It must be true ; for if not true, how could he live ? 

As for Tom's Bible, though it had no annotations and helps in margin 
from learned commentators, still it had been embellished with certain way- 
marks and guide-boards of Tom's own invention, and which helped him 
more than the most learned expositions could have done. It had been 
his custom to get the Bible read to him by his master's children, in 
particular by young Master George ; and as they read, he would designate, 
by bold strong marks and dashes, with pen and ink, the passages which 
more particularly gratified his ear or affected his heart. His Bible was 
thus marked through, from one end to the other, with a variety of styles 
and designations ; so he could in a moment seize upon his favourite 
passages, without the labour of spelling out what lay between them ; and 
while it lay there before him, every passage breathing of some old home- 
scene, and recalling some past enjoyment, his Bible seemed to him all 
of this life that remained, as well as the promise of a future one. 

Among the passengers on the boat was a young gentleman of fortune 
and family, resident in New Orleans, who bore the name of St. Clare. He 
had with him a daughter between five and six years of age, together with a 
lady who seemed to claim relationship to both, and to have the little one 
especially under her charge. 

Tom had often caught glimpses of this little girl — for she was one of 
those busy, tripping creatures, that can be no more contained in one place 
than a sunbeam or a summer breeze; nor was she one that, once seen, 
could be easily forgotten. 

Her form was the perfection of childish beauty, without its usual chub- 
biness and squareness of outline. There was about it an undulating and 
aerial grace, such as one might dream of for some mythic and allegorical 
being. Her face was remarkable less for its perfect beauty of feature than 
for a singular and dreamy earnestness of expression, which made the ideal 
start when they looked at her, and by which the dullest and most literal 
were impressed, without exactly knowing why. The shape of her head 
and the turn of her neck and bust were peculiarly noble, and the long, 
golden-brown hair that floated like a cloud around it, the deep, spiritual 
gravity of her violet-blue eyes, shaded by heavy fringes of golden brown — 
all marked her out from other children, and made every one turn and 
look after her, as she glided hither and thither on the boat. Nevertheless, 
the little one was not what you would have called either a grave child or a 
gad one. On the contrary, an airy and innocent playfulness seemed to 


flicker like the shadow of summer leaves over her childish face, and 
around her buoyant figure. She was always in motion, always, with a half 
smile on her rosy mouth, flying hither and thither, with an undulating and 
cloud-like tread, singing to herself as she moved, as in a happy dream. 
Her father and female guardian were incessantly busy in pursuit of her, 
but, when caught, she melted from them again like a summer-cloud ; as 
no word of chiding or reproof ever fell on her ear for whatever she chose 
to do, she pursued her own way all over the boat. Always dressed in 
white, she seemed to move like a shadow through all sorts of places, 
without contracting spot or stain ; and there was not a corner or nook, 
above or below, where those fairy footsteps had not glided, and that 
visionary golden head, with its deep blue eyes, fleeted along. 

The fireman, as he looked up from his sweaty toil, sometimes found 
those eyes looking wonderingly into the raging depths of the furnace, and 
fearfully and pityingly at him, as if she thought him in some dreadful 
danger. Anon the steersman at the wheel paused and smiled, as the 
picture-like head gleamed through the window of the round-house, and in 
a moment was gone again. A thousand times a day rough voices blessed 
her, and smiles of unwonted softness stole over hard faces, as she passed ; 
and when she tripped fearlessly over dangerous places, rough, sooty, hands 
were stretched involuntarily out to save her, and smooth her path. 

Tom, who had the soft, impressible nature of his kindly race, ever 
yearning toward the simple and child-like, watched the little creature with 
daily increasing interest. To him she seemed something almost divine ; 
and whenever her golden head and deep blue eyes peered out upon 
him from behind some dusky cotton-bale, or looked down upon him over 
some ridge of packages, he half believed that he saw one of the angels 
stepped out of his New Testament. 

Often and often she walked mournfully round the place where Hale/s 
gang of men and women sat in their chains. She would glide in among 
them, and look at them with an air of perplexed and sorrowful earnest- 
ness ; and sometimes she would lift their chains with her slender hands, 
and then sigh wofully as she glided away. Several times she appeared 
suddenly among them, with her hands full of candy, nuts, and oranges, 
which she would distribute joyfully to them, and then be gone again. 

Tom watched the little lady a great deal before he ventured on any 
overtures towards acquaintanceship. He knew an abundance of simple 
arts to propitiate and invite the approaches of the little people, and he 
resolved to play his part right skilfully. He could cut cunning little 
baskets out of cherry-stones, could make grotesque faces on hickory nuts, 
or odd jumping figures out of elder-pith, and he was a very Pan in the 
manufacture of whistles of all sizes and sorts. His pockets were full of 
miscellaneous articles of attraction, which he had hoarded in days of old for 
his master's children, and which he now produced, with commendable 
prudence and economy, one by one, as overtures for acquaintance and 

The little one was shy, for all her busy interest in everything going on, 
and it was not easy to tame her. For a while, she would perch like a 
canary-bird on some box or package near Tom, while busy in the little arts 
aforesaid, and take from him, with a kind of grave bashfulness, the Uttle 
articles he offered. But at last they got on quite confidential terms. 

"What's little Missy's name?" said Tom at last, when he thought 
matters were ripe to push such an inquiry. 


"Evangeline St. Clare," said the little one, "though papa and every- 
body else call me Eva. Now, what 's your name ? " 

" My name 's Tom ; the little chil'en used to call me Uncle Tom, way 
back thar in Ken tuck." 

" Then I mean to call you Uncle Tom, because, you see, I like you," 
said Eva. " So, Uncle Tom, where are you going ? " 

" I don't know. Miss Eva." 

" Don't know ? " said Eva. 
• " No. I am going to be sold to somebody. I don't know who." 

" My papa can buy you," said Eva quickly ; " and if he buys you, you 
will have good times. I mean to ask him to, this very day." 

" Thank you, my little lady," said Tom. 

The boat here stopped at a small landing to take in wood, and Eva, 
hearing her father's voice, bounded nimbly away. Tom rose up, and 
went forward to offer his services in wooding, and soon was busy among 
the hands. 

Eva and her father were standing together by the railings to see the 
boat start from the landing-place ; the wheel had made two or three 
revolutions in the water, when, by some sudden movement, the little one 
suddenly lost her balance, and fell sheer over the side of the boat into 
the water. Her father, scarce knowing what he did, was plunging in after 
her, but was held back by some one behind him, who saw that more 
efficient aid had followed his child. 

Tom was standing just under her on the lower deck as she fell. He 
saw her strike the water and sink, and was after her in a moment. A 
broad-chested, strong-armed fellow, it was nothing for him to keep 
afloat in the water till, in a moment or two, the child rose to the surface, 
and he caught her in his arms, and, swimming with her to the boat-side, 
handed her up, all dripping, to the grasp of hundreds of hands, which, 
as if they had all belonged to one man, were stretched eagerly out to 
receive her. A few moments more, and her father bore her, dripping and 
senseless, to the ladies' cabin, where, as is usual in cases of the kind, there 
ensued a very well-meaning and kind-hearted strife among the female 
occupants generally, as to who should do the most things to make a 
disturbance, and to hinder her recovery in every way possible. 

It was a sultry, close day, the next day, as the steamer drew near to 
New Orleans. A general bustle of expectation and preparation was 
spread through the boat; in the cabin, one and another were gathering 
their things together and arranging them preparatory to going ashore. 
The steward and chambermaid, and all, were busily engaged in cleaning, 
furbishing, and arranging the splendid boat, preparatory to a grand 

On the lower deck sat our friend Tom, with his arms folded, and 
anxiously, from time to time, turning his eyes towards a group on the 
other side of the boat. 

There stood the fair Evangeline, a little paler than the day before, but 
otherwise exhibiting no traces of the accident which had befallen her. A 
graceful, elegantly-formed young man stood by her, carelessly leaning one 
elbow on a bale of cotton, while a large pocket-book lay open before him. 
It was quite evident, at a glance, that the gentleman was Eva's father. 
There was the same noble cast of head, the same large blue eyes, the 



same golden-brown hair ; yet the expression was wholly different. In the 
large, clear blue eyes, though in form and colour exactly similar, there was 
wanting that misty, dreamy depth of expression ; all was clear, bold, and 
bright, but with a light wholly of this world ; the beautifully cut mouth 
had a proud and somewhat sarcastic expression, while an air of free-and- 
easy superiority sat not ungracefully in every turn and movement of his 
fine form. He was listening with a good-humoured, negligent air, half 
comic, half contemptuous, to Haley, who was very volubly expatiating on 
the quahty of the article for which they were bargaining. 

"All the moral and Christian virtues bound in black morocco, 
complete ! " he said, when Haley had finished. " Well, now, my good 
fellow, what 's the damage, as they say in Kentucky ; in short, what 's to 
be paid out for this business ? How much are you going to cheat me, 
now ? Out with it." 

" Wal," said Haley, " if I should say thirteen hundred dollars for that 
ar fellow, I shouldn't but just save myself — I shouldn't, now, rally." 

" Poor fellow," said the young man, fixing his keen, mocking blue eye 
on him ; " but I suppose you would let me have him for that, out of a 
particular regard for me ? " 

" Well, the young lady here seems to be sot on him, and nat'lly 

" Oh, certainly, there 's a call on your benevolence, my friend. Now, 
as a matter of Christian charity, how cheap could you afford to let him go, 
to obHge a young lady that 's particular sot on him ? " 

"Wal, now, just think on't," said the trader; "just look at them 
limbs — broad-chested, strong as a horse. Look at his head ; them high 
forrads allays shows calculatin' niggers, that '11 do any kind o' thing. I 've 
marked that ar. Now, a nigger of that ar heft and build is worth consider- 
able, just, as you may say, for his body, supposin' he 's stupid ; but come 
to put in his calculatin' faculties, and them which I can show he has 
oncommon, why, of course, it makes him come higher. Why, that ar 
fellow managed his master's whole farm. He has a strornary talent for 

" Bad, bad, very bad ; knows altogether too much," said the young 
man, with the same mocking smile playing about his mouth. " Never 
will do in the world. Your smart fellows are always running off, stealing 
horses, and raising the devil generally. I think you '11 have to take off 
a couple of hundred for his smartness." 

"Wal, there might be something in that ar, if it warn't for his character; 
but I can show recommends from his master and others, to prove he is one 
of your real pious — the most humble, prayin', pious crittur ye ever did see. 
Why, he 's been called a preacher in them parts he came from." 

" And I might use him for a family chaplain, possibly," added the young 
man drily. " That 's quite an idea. Religion is a remarkably scarce 
article at our house." 

" You're joking, now." 

" How do you know I am ? Didn't you just warrant him for a 
preacher ? Has he been examined by any synod or council ? Come, 
hand over your papers." 

If the trader had not been sure, by a certain good-humoured twinkle 
in the large blue eye, that all this banter was sure in the long run to turn 
out a cash concern, he might have been somewhat out of patience ; 
as it was, he laid down a greasy pocket-book on the cotton-bales, and 


began anxiously studying over certain papers in it, the young man standing 
by the while, looking down on him with an air of careless, easy drollery. 

" Papa, do buy him ! it 's no matter what you pay," whispered Eva 
softly, getting up on a package, and putting her arm around her father's 
neck. " You have money enough, I know. I want him." 

"What for, pussy? Are you going to use him for a rattle-box, or a 
rocking-horse, or what ? " 

" I want to make him happy." 

" An original reason, certainly." 

Here the trader handed up a certificate, signed by Mr. Shelby, which 
the young man took with the tips of his long fingers, and glanced over 

" A gentlemanly hand," he said, " and well spelt, too. Well, now, but 
I'm not sure, after all, about this religion," said he, the old wicked 
expression returning to his eye ; " the country is almost ruined with pious 
white people ; such pious politicians as we have just before elections — 
such pious goings on in all departments of Church and State, that a 
fellow does not know who'll cheat him next. I don't know, either, 
about religion's being up in the market, just now. I have not looked in 
the papers lately, to see how it sells. How many hundred dollars, now, 
do you put on for this religion ? " 

" You like to be a-jokin', now," said the trader ; " but then there 's 
sense under all that ar. I know there's differences in religion. Some 
kinds is mis'rable : there 's your meetin' pious ; there 's your singin', 
roarin' pious ; them ar an't no account, in black or white — but these 
raily is ; and I 've seen it in niggers as often as any, your rail softly, quiet, 
stiddy, honest pious, that the hull world couldn't tempt 'em to do nothing 
that they thinks is wrong ; and ye see in this letter what Tom's old master 
says about him." 

"Now," said the young man, stooping gravely over his book of bills, 
" if you can assure me that I really can buy this kind of pious, and that 
it will be set down to my account in the book up above, as something 
belonging to me, I wouldn't care if I did go a little extra for it. How 
d' ye say ? " 

"Wal, raily, I can't do that," said the trader. "I'm a thinkin' that 
every man '11 have to hang on his own hook in them ar quarters." 

" Rather hard on a fellow that pays extra on religion, and can't trade 
with it in the State where he wants it most, an't it now ? " said the young 
man, who had been making out a roll of bills while he was speaking. 
" There, count your money, old boy ! " he added, as he handed the roll to 
the trader. 

" All right," said Haley, his face beaming with delight ; and, pulling out 
an old inkhorn, he proceeded to fill out a bill of sale, which, in a few 
moments, he handed to the young man. 

" I wonder, now, if I was divided up and inventoried," said the latter, 
as he ran over the paper, " how much I might bring. Say so much for 
the shape of my head, so much for a high forehead, so much for arms and 
hands and legs, and then so much for education, learning, talent, honesty, 
religion ! Bless me ! there would be small charge on that last, I 'm 
thinking. But come, Eva," he said ; and taking the hand of his daughter, 
he stepped across the boat, and, carelessly putting the tip of his finger 
under Tom's chin, said good-humouredly, " Look up, Tom, and see how 
you like your new master." 


Tom looked up. It was not in nature to look into that gay, young, 
handsome face, without a feeling of pleasure ; and Tom felt the tears start 
in his eyes, as he said, heartily, " God bless you, mas'r ! " 

" Well, I hope he will. What 's your name, Tom ? Quite as likely to 
do it for your asking as mine, from all accounts. Can you drive horses, 

"I've been allays used to horses," said Tom. "Mas'r Shelby raised 
heaps on 'em." 

" Well, I think I shall put you in coachy, on condition that you won't 
be drunk more than once a week, unless in cases of emergency, Tom." 

Tom looked surprised, and rather hurt, and said, "I never drink, 

" I 've heard that story before, Tom ; but then we '11 see. It will be a 
special accommodation to all concerned if you don't. Never mind, my 
boy," he added good-humouredly, seeing Tom still looked grave ; " I don't 
doubt you mean to do well." 

" I sartin do, mas'r," said Tom. 

" And you shall have good times," said Eva. " Papa is very good to 
everybody, only he always will laugh at them." 

" Papa is much obliged to you for his recommendation," said St. Clare, 
laughing, as he turned on his heel and walked away. 


OF tom's new master, and various other matters. 

Since the thread of our humble hero's life has now become interwoven 
with that of higher ones, it is necessary to give some brief introduction to 

Augustine St. Clare was the son of a wealthy planter of Louisiana. The 
family had its origin in Canada. Of two brothers very similar in tempera- 
ment and character, one had settled on a flourishing farm in Vermont, 
and the other became an opulent planter in Louisiana. The mother of 
Augustine was a Huguenot French lady, whose family had emigrated to 
Louisiana during the days of its early settlement. Augustine and another 
brother were the only children of their parents. Having inherited from 
his mother an exceeding delicacy of constitution, he was, at the instance 
of physicians, during many years of his boyhood sent to the care of his 
uncle in Vermont, in order that his constitution might be strengthened by 
the cold of a more bracing climate. 

In childhood, he was remarkable for an extreme and marked sensitive- 
ness of character, more akin to the softness of woman than the ordinary 
hardness of his own sex. Time, however, overgrew this softness \vith the 
rough bark of manhood, and but few knew how living and fresh it still 
lay at the core. His talents were of the very first order, although his 
mind showed a preference always for the ideal and aesthetic ; and there 
was about him that repugnance to the actual business of life which is the 
common result of this balance of the faculties. Soon after the completion 
of his college course, his whole nature was kindled into one intense and 
passionate effervescence of romantic passion. His hour came — the hour 
that comes only once ; his star rose in the horizon — that star that rises so 


often in vain, to be remembered only as a thing of dreams ; and it rose 
for him in vain. To drop the figure, he saw and won the love of a high- 
minded and beautiful woman, in one of the northern States, and they 
were affianced. He returned south to make arrangements for their 
marriage, when, most unexpectedly, his letters were returned to him by 
mail, with a short note from her guardian, stating to him that ere this 
reached him the lady would be the wife of another. Stung to madness, 
he vainly hoped, as many another has done, to fling the whole thing from 
his heart by one desperate effort. Too proud to supplicate or seek 
explanation, he threw himself at once into a whirl of fashionable society, 
and in a fortnight from the time of the fatal letter was the accepted lover 
of the reigning belle of the season ; and as soon as arrangements could be 
made, he became the husband of a fine figure, a pair of bright, dark eyes, 
and a hundred thousand dollars ; and, of course, everybody thought him 
a happy fellow. 

The married couple were enjoying their honeymoon, ai:d entertaining a 
brilliant circle of friends in their splendid villa near Lake Pontchartrain, 
when, one day, a letter was brought to him in that well-remembered 
writing. It was handed to him while he was in full tide of gay and 
successful conversation, in a whole roomful of company. He turned 
deadly pale when he saw the writing, but still preserved his composure, 
and finished the playful warfare of badinage which he was at the 
moment carrying on-, with a lady opposite ; and, a short time after, was 
missed from the circle. In his room, alone, he opened and read the 
letter, now worse than idle and useless to be read. It was from her, 
giving a long account of a persecution to which she had been exposed 
by her guardian's family, to lead her to unite herself with their son ; and 
she related how, for a long time, his letters had ceased to arrive ; how she 
had written time and again, till she became weary and doubtful ; how her 
health had failed under her anxieties, and how, at last, she had discovered 
the whole fraud which had been practised on them both. The letter ended 
with expressions of hope and thankfulness, and professions of undying 
affection, which were more bitter than death to the unhappy young man. 
He wrote to her immediately — 

" I have received yours — but too late. I believed all I heard. I was 
desperate. / am married, and all is over. Only forget — it is all that 
remains for either of us." 

And thus ended the whole romance and ideal of life for Augustine St. 
Clare ; but the real remained — the real, like the flat, bare, oozy tide-mud, 
when the blue sparkling wave, with all its company of gliding boats and 
white-winged ships, its music of oars and chiming waters, has gone do\vn, 
and there it lies, flat, slimy, bare — exceedingly real. 

Of course, in a novel, people's hearts break, and they die, and that is 
the end of it ; and in a story this is very convenient. But in real life we 
do not die when all that makes life bright dies to us. There is a most 
busy and important round of eating, drinking, dressing, walking, visiting, 
buying, selling, talking, reading, and all that makes up what is commonly 
called living yet to be gone through ; and this yet remained to Augustine. 
Had his wife been a whole woman, she might yet have done something — 
as woman can — to mend the broken threads of life, and weave again into 
a tissue of brightness. But Marie St. Clare could not even see that they 
had been broken. As before stated, she consisted of a fine figure, a pair 


of splendid eyes, and a hundred thousand dollars ; and none of these 
items were precisely the ones to minister to a mind diseased. 

When Augustine, pale as death, was found lying on the sofa, and 
pleaded sudden sick-headache as the cause of his distress, she recom- 
mended him to smell of hartshorn, and when the paleness and headache 
came on week after week, she only said that she never thought Mr. St. 
Clare was sickly ; but it seemed he was very liable to sick-headaches, and 
that it was a very unfortunate thing for her, because he didn't enjoy going 
into company with her, and it seemed odd to go so much alone, when 
they were just married. Augustine was glad in his heart that he had 
married so undiscerning a woman ; but as the glosses and civilities of the 
honeymoon wore away, he discovered that a beautiful young woman, who 
has lived all her life to be caressed and waited on, might prove quite a 
hard mistress in domestic life. Marie never had possessed much capability 
of affection, or much sensibility ; and the little that she had had merged 
into a most intense and unconscious selfishness ; a selfishness the more 
hopeless from its quiet obtuseness, its utter ignorance of any claims but 
her own. From her infancy she had been surrounded with servants, who 
lived only to study her caprices ; the idea that they had either feehngs or 
rights had never dawned upon her, even in distant perspective. Her father, 
whose only child she had been, had never denied her anything that lay 
within the compass of human possibility ; and when she entered life, 
beautiful, accomplished, and an heiress, she had, of course, all the 
eligibles and non-eligibles of the other sex sighing at her feet, and she 
had no doubt that Augustine was a most fortunate man in having 
obtained her. It is a great mistake to suppose that a woman with no 
heart will be an easy creditor in the exchange of affection. There is 
not on earth a more merciless exacter of love from others than a 
thoroughly selfish woman ; and the more unlovely she grows, the more 
jealously and scrupulously she exacts love, to the uttermost farthing. 
When, therefore, St. Clare began to drop off those gallantries and small 
attentions which flowed at first through the habitude of courtship, he 
found his sultana no way ready to resign her slave ; there were abundance 
of tears, poutings, and small tempests, there were discontents, pinings, 
upbraidings. St. Clare was good-natured and self-indulgent, and sought 
to buy off with presents and flatteries ; and when Marie became mother 
to a beautiful daughter, he really felt awakened, for a time, to something 
like tenderness. 

St. Clare's mother had been a woman of uncommon elevation and 
purity of character, and he gave to this child his mother's name, fondly 
fancying that she would prove a reproduction of her image. The thing 
had been remarked with petulant jealousy by his wife, and she regarded 
her husband's absorbing devotion to the child with suspicion and dislike ; 
all that was given to her seemed so much taken from herself. From the 
time of the birth of this child her health gradually sank. A life of cor>- 
stant inaction, bodily and mental — the friction of ceaseless ennui and 
discontent, united to the ordinary weakness which attended the period of 
maternity — in course of a few years changed the blooming young belle 
into a yellow, faded, sickly woman, whose time was divided among a 
variety of fanciful diseases, and who considered herself, in every sense, 
the most ill-used and suffering person in existence. 

There was no end of her various complaints ; but her principal forte 
appeared to lie in sick-headache, which sometimes would confine her to 


her room three days out of six. As, of course, all family arrangements 
fell into the hands of servants, St. Clare found his menage anything but 
comfortable. His only daughter was exceedingly delicate, and he feared 
that, with no one to look after her and attend to her, her health and life 
might yet fall a sacrifice to her mother's inefficiency. He had taken her 
with him on a tour to Vermont, and had persuaded his cousin, Miss 
Ophelia St. Clare, to return with him to his southern residence ; and they 
are now returning on this boat, where we have introduced them to our 

And now, while the distant domes and spires of New Orleans rise to 
our view, there is yet time for an introduction to Miss Ophelia. 

Whoever has travelled in the New England States will remember, in 
some cool village, the large farm-house, with its clean-swept grassy yard, 
shaded by the dense and massive foliage of the sugar-maple ; and remem- 
ber the air of order and stillness, of perpetuity and unchanging repose, 
that seemed to breathe over the whole place. Nothing lost or out of 
order, not a picket loose in the fence, not a particle of litter in the turfy 
yard, with its clumps of lilac-bushes growing up under the windows. 
Within, he will remember wide, clean rooms, where nothing ever seems to 
be doing or going to be done, where everything is once and for ever 
rigidly in place, and where all household arrangements move with the 
punctual exactness of the old clock in the corner. In the family "keep- 
ing-room," as it is termed, he will remember the staid, respectable old 
book-case, with its glass doors, where RoUin's History, Milton's Paradise 
Lost, Bunyan's Pilgriiris Progress, and Scott's Family Bible, stand side by 
side in decorous order, with multitudes of other books, equally solemn 
and respectable. There are no servants in the house ; but the lady in the 
;^nowy cap, with the spectacles, who sits sewing every afternoon among her 
daughters, as if nothing ever had been done, or were to be done — she and 
her girls, in some long-forgotten fore part of the day, " did up the work" 
and for the rest of the time, probably at all hours when you would see 
them, it is '■^ done up." The old kitchen-floor never seems stained or 
spotted; the tables, the chairs, and the various cooking-utensils, never 
seem deranged or disordered; though three and sometimes four meals a 
day are got there, though the family washing and ironing is there per- 
formed, and though pounds of butter and cheese are in some silent and 
mysterious manner there brought into existence. 

On such a farm, in such a house and family, Miss Ophelia had spent a 
quiet existence of some forty-five years, when her cousin invited her to 
visit his southern mansion. The eldest of a large family, she was still 
considered by her father and mother as one of " the children " ; and the 
proposal that she should go to Orleans was a most momentous one to the 
family circle. The old grey-headed father took down Morse's Atlas out of 
the book-case, and looked out the exact latitude and longitude, and read 
Flint's Travels in the South and West, to make up his own mind as to the 
nature of the country. 

The good mother inquired anxiously, "if Orleans wasn't an awful 
wicked place?" saying, "that it seemed to her most equal to going to 
the Sandwich Islands, or anywhere among the heathen." 

It was known at the minister's and at the doctor's, and at Miss 
Peabody's miUiner's shop, that Ophelia St. Clare was "talking about" 
going away down to Orleans with her cousin ; and of course the whole 
village could do no less than help this very important process of talking 


about the matter. The minister, who inclined strongly to abolitionist 
views, was quite doubtful whether such a step might not tend somewhat to 
encourage the southerners in holding on to their slaves ; while the doctor, 
who was a staunch colonisationist, inclined to the opinion that Miss 
Ophelia ought to go, to show the Orleans people that we don't think 
hardly of them, after all. He was of opinion, in fact, that southern 
people needed encouraging. When, however, the fact that she had 
resolved to go was fully before the public mind, she was solemnly invited 
out to tea by all her friends and neighbours for the space of a fortnight, 
and her prospects and plans duly canvassed and inquired into. Miss 
Moseley, who came into the house to help to do the dressmaking, 
acquired daily accessions of importance from the developments with 
regard to Miss Ophelia's wardrobe, which she had been enabled to make. 
It was credibly ascertained that Squire Sinclair, as his name was com- 
monly contracted in the neighbourhood, had counted out fifty dollars and 
given them to Miss Ophelia, and told her to buy any clothes she thought 
best ; and that two new silk dresses and a bonnet had been sent for from 

As to the propriety of this extraordinary outlay, the public mind 
was divided ; some affirming that it was well enough, all things considered, 
for once in one's life, and others stoutly affirming that the money had 
better have been sent to the missionaries ; but all parties agreed that there 
had been no such parasol seen in those parts as had been sent on from 
New York, and that she had one silk dress that might fairly be trusted to 
stand alone, whatever might be said of its mistress. There were credible 
rumours, also, of a hemstitched pocket-handkerchief; and report even 
went so far as to state, Miss Ophelia had one pocket-handkerchief with 
lace all round it — it was even added that it was worked in the corners ; 
but this latter point was never satisfactorily ascertained, and remains, in 
fact, unsettled to this day. 

Miss Ophelia, as you now behold her, stands before you, in a very 
shining brown linen travelling-dress, tall, square-formed, and angular. 
Her face was thin, and rather sharp in its outlines ; the lips compressed, 
like those of a person who is in the habit of making up her mind definitely 
on all subjects ; while the keen, dark eyes had a peculiarly searching, 
advised movement, and travelled over everything, as if they were looking 
for something to take care of. 

All her movements were sharp, decided, and energetic ; and though she 
was never much of a talker, her words were remarkably direct and to the 
purpose when she did speak. 

In her habits, she was a living impersonation of order, method, and 
exactness. In punctuality, she was as inevitable as a clock and as inexor- 
able as a railroad-engine ; and she held in most decided contempt and 
abomination anything of a contrary character. 

The great sin of sins, in her eye — the sum of all evils — was expressed 
by one very common and important word in her vocabulary — "shiftless- 
ness." Her finale and ultimatum of contempt consisted in a very em- 
phatic pronunciation of the word "shiftless"; and by this she characterised 
all modes of procedure which had not a direct and inevitable relation to 
accomplishment of some purpose then definitely had in mind. People 
who did nothing, or who did not know exactly what they were going to do, 
or who did not take the most direct way to accomplish what they set their 
hands to, were objects of her entire contempt — a contempt shown less 


frequently by anything she said than by a kind of stony grimness, as if 
she scorned to say anything about the matter. 

As to mental cultivation, she had a clear, strong, active mind, was well 
and thoroughly read in history and the older English classics, and thought 
with great strength within certain narrow limits. Her theological tenets 
were all made up, labelled in the most positive and distinct forms, and 
put by, like the bundles in her patch trunk ; there were just so many of 
them, and there were never to be any more. So, also, were her ideas with 
regard to most matters of practical life — such as housekeeping in all its 
branches, and the various political relations of her native village. And, 
underlying all, deeper than anything else, higher and broader, lay the 
strongest principle of her being — conscientiousness. Nowhere is con- 
science so dominant and all-absorbing as with New England women. It 
is the granite formation, which lies deepest, and rises out, even to the tops 
of the highest mountains. 

Miss Opheha was the absolute bond-slave of the " oughf^ Once make 
her certain that the "path of duty," as she commonly phrased it, lay in 
any given direction, and fire and water could not keep her from it. 
She would walk straight down into a well, or up to a loaded cannon's 
mouth, if she were only quite sure that there the path lay. Her standard 
of right was so high, so all-embracing, so minute, and making so few 
concessions to human frailty, that though she strove with heroic ardour to 
reach it, she never actually did so, and of course was burdened with a 
constant and often harassing sense of deficiency. This gave a severe and 
somewhat gloomy cast to her religious character. 

But how in the world can Miss Ophelia get along with Augustine St. 
Clare — gay, easy, unpunctual, unpractical, sceptical — in short, walking with 
impudent and nonchalant freedom over every one of her most cherished 
habits and opinions ? 

To tell the truth, then. Miss Ophelia loved him. AVhen a boy, it had 
been hers to teach him his catechism, mend his clothes, comb his hair, 
and bring him up generally in the way he should go ; and her heart having 
a warm side to it, Augustine had, as he usually did with most people, 
monopolised a large share of it for himself, and therefore it was that he 
succeeded very easily in pursuading her that the " path of duty " lay in the 
direction of New Orleans, and that she must go with him to take care of 
Eva, and keep everything from going to wreck and ruin during the frequent 
illnesses of his wife. The idea of a house without anybody to take care 
of it went to her heart ; then she loved the lovely little girl, as few could 
help doing; and though she regarded Augustine as very much of a heathen, 
yet she loved him, laughed at his jokes, and forebore \\dth his failings, to 
an extent which those who knew him thought perfectly incredible. But 
what more or other is to be known of Miss Ophelia our reader must 
discover by a personal acquaintance. 

There she is, sitting now in her state room, surrounded by a mixed 
multitude of little and big carpet bags, boxes, baskets, each containing 
some separate responsibility which she is tying, binding up, packing, or 
fastening, with a face of great earnestness. 

" Now, Eva, have you kept count of your things ? Of course you 
haven't — children never do ; there 's the spotted carpet bag, and the 
little blue band-box with your best bonnet — that's two; then the India- 
rubber satchel is three; and my tape and needle-box is four; and my 
band-box, five; and my collar-box, six; and that little hair-trunk, seven. 


What have you done with your sunshade? Give it to me, and let me 
put a paper round it, and tie it to my umbrella, with my shade; there, 

" Why, aunty, we are only going up home — what is the use ? " 

"To keep it nice, child; people must take care of their things if 
they ever mean to have anything; and now, Eva, is your thimble put 

" Really, aunty, I don't know." 

" Well, never mind ; I '11 look your box over ; thimble, wax, two 
spools, scissors, knife, tape-needle ; all right — put it in here. What 
did you ever do, child, when you were coming on with only your papa? 
I should have thought you'd 'a lost everything you had." 

" Well, aunty, I did lose a great many ; and, then, when we stopped 
anywhere, papa would buy some more of whatever it vv-as." 

" Mercy on us, child, what a way ! " 

" It was a very easy way, aunty," said Eva. 

" It 's a dreadful shiftless one," said aunty. 

" Why, aunty, what '11 you do now ? " said Eva. " That trunk is too 
full to be shut down." 

" It must shut down," said aunty, with the air of a general, as she 
squeezed the things in, and sprang upon the lid ; still a little gap re- 
mained about the mouth of the trunk. 

" Get up here, Eva ! " said Miss Ophelia courageously ; " what has 
been done can be done again. This trunk has got to be shut and locked 
— there are no two ways about it." 

And the trunk, intimidated, doubtless, by this resolute statement, gave 
in. The hasp snapped sharply in its hole, and Miss Ophelia turned the 
key and pocketed it in triumph. 

" Now we 're ready. Where 's your papa ? I think it time this baggage 
was sent out. Do look out, Eva, and see if you see your papa." 

" Oh, yes, he 's down the other end of the gentlemen's cabin, eating an 

" He can't know how near we are coming," said aunty ; " hadn't you 
better run and speak to him ? " 

" Papa never is in a hurry about anything," said Eva, " and we haven't 
come to the landing. Do step on the guards, aunty. Look ! there 's our 
house, up that street ! " 

The boat now began, with heavy groans, like some vast, tired monster, 
to prepare to push up among the multiplied steamers at the levee. Eva 
joyously pointed out the various spires, domes, and way-marks, by which 
she recognised her native city. 

*' Yes, yes, dear ; very fine," said Miss Ophelia. " But, mercy on us ! 
the boat has stopped ! Where is your father ? " 

And now ensued the usual turmoil of landing — waiters running twenty 
ways at once— men tugging trunks, carpet bags, boxes — women anxiously 
calling to their children, and everybody crowding in a dense mass to the 
plank towards the landing. 

Miss Ophelia seated herself resolutely on the lately vanquished trunk, 
and, marshalling all her goods and chattels in fine military order, seemed 
resolved to defend them to the last. 

" Shall I take your trunk, ma'am ? " " Shall I take your baggage ? " 
" Let me 'tend to your baggage, missis ! " " Shan't I carry out these 
yer, missis ? " rained down upon her unheeded. She sat with grim 


determination, upright as a darning-needle stuck in a board, holding 
on her bundle of umbrella and parasols, and replying with a determina- 
tion that was enough to strike dismay even into a hackman, wondering 
to Eva, in each interval, "what upon earth her papa could be thinking 
of? he couldn't have fallen over, now — but something must have 
happened": and just as she had begun to work herself into a real 
distress, he came up, with his usually careless motion, and, giving Eva 
a quarter of the orange he was eating, said — 

" Well, Cousin Vermont, I suppose you are all ready ? " 

" I 've been ready, waiting nearly an hour," said Miss Ophelia ; " I began 
to be really concerned about you." 

" That 's a clever fellow, now," said he. " Well, the carriage is waiting, 
and the crowd are now off, so that one can walk out in a decent and 
Christian manner, and not be pushed and shoved. Here," he added to a 
driver who stood behind him, " take these things." 

" I'll go and see to his putting them in," said Miss Ophelia. 

" Oh, pshaw, cousin, what 's the use ? " said St. Clare. 

" Well, at any rate, I '11 carry this, and this, and this," said Miss 
Ophelia, singling out three boxes and a small carpet bag. 

" My dear Miss Vermont, positively you mustn't come the Green 
Mountains over us that way. You must adopt at least a piece of 
southern principle, and not walk out under all that load. They'll take 
you for a waiting-maid ! Give them to this fellow ; he '11 put them down 
as if they were eggs, now." 

Miss Ophelia looked despairingly as her cousin took all her treasures 
from her, and rejoiced to find herself once more in the carriage with them, 
in a state of preservation. 

" Where 's Tom ? " said Eva. 

" Oh, he 's on the outside, pussy. I 'm going to take Tom up to 
mother for a peace-offering, to make up for that drunken fellow that 
upset the carriage." 

" Oh, Tom will make a splendid driver, I know ! " said Eva j *' he '11 
never get drunk." 

The carriage stopped in front of an ancient mansion, built in that 
odd mixture of Spanish and French style, of which there are specimens 
in some parts of New Orleans. It was built in the Moorish fashion — 
a square building inclosing a court-yard, into which the carriage drove 
through an arched gateway. The court, in the inside, had evidently 
been arranged to gratify a picturesque and voluptuous ideality. Wide 
galleries ran all around the four sides, whose Moorish arches, slender 
pillars, and arabesque ornaments carried the mind back, as in a dream, 
to the reign of Oriental romance in Spain. In the middle of the court, 
a fountain threw high its silvery water, falling in a never-ceasing spray 
into a marble basin, fringed with a deep border of fragrant violets. 
The water in the fountain, pellucid as crystal, was alive with myriads 
of gold and silver fishes, twinkling and darting through it like so many 
living jewels. Around the fountain ran a walk, paved with a mosaic 
of pebbles, laid in various fanciful patterns ; and this, again, was 
surrounded by turf, smooth as green velvet, while a carriage - drive 
inclosed the whole. Two large orange-trees, now fragrant with blossoms, 
threw a delicious shade ; and, ranged in a circle round upon the turf, 
were marble vases of arabesque sculpture, containing the choicest 
flowering plants of the tropics. Huge pomegranate trees, with their 


glossy leaves and flame- coloured flowers — dark-leaved Arabian jessa- 
mines, with their silvery stars — geraniums, luxuriant roses bending 
beneath their heavy abundance of flowers, golden jessamines, lemon- 
scented verbenum, all united their bloom and fragrance ; while here 
and there a mystic old aloe, with its strange, massive leaves, sat looking 
like some hoary old enchanter, sitting in weird grandeur among the more 
perishable bloom and fragrance around it. 

The galleries that surrounded the court were festooned with a curtain 
of some kind of Moorish stuff, and could be drawn down at pleasure, to 
exclude the beams of the sun. On the whole, the appearance of the 
place was luxurious and romantic. 

As the carriage drove in, Eva seemed like a bird ready to burst from a 
cage, with the wild eagerness of her delight. 

" Oh, isn't it beautiful, lovely, my own dear, darling home ! " she said 
to Miss Ophelia. " Isn't it beautiful ? " 

"'Tis a pretty place," said Miss Ophelia, as she alighted, "though it 
looks rather old and heathenish to me." 

Tom got down from the carriage, and looked about with an air of calm, 
still enjoyment. The negro, it must be remembered, is an exotic of the 
most gorgeous and superb countries of the world, and he has deep in his 
heart a passion for all that is splendid, rich, and fanciful ; a passion which, 
rudely indulged by an untrained taste, draws on him the ridicule of the 
colder and more correct white race. 

St. Clare, who was in his heart a poetical voluptuary, smiled as Miss 
Ophelia made her remark on his premises, and, turning to Tom, who was 
standing looking round, his beaming black face perfectly radiant with 
admiration, he said : 

" Tom, my boy, this seems to suit you." 

"Yes, mas'r, it looks about the right thing," said Tom. 

All this passed in a moment, while trunks were being hustled off, 
hackman paid, and while a crowd of all ages and sizes — men, women, 
and children — came running through the galleries, both above and below, 
to see mas'r come in. Foremost among them was a highly-dressed young 
mulatto man, evidently a very distingue personage, attired in the ultra 
extreme of the mode, and gracefully waving a scented cambric hand- 
kerchief in his hand. 

This personage had been exerting himself, with great alacrity, in driving 
all the flock of domestics to the other end of the verandah. 

" Back ! all of you. I am ashamed of you ! " he said, in a tone of 
authority. "Would you intrude on master's domestic relations, in the 
first hour of his return ? " 

All looked abashed at this elegant speech, delivered with quite an air, 
and stood huddled together at a respectful distance, except two stout 
porters, who came up and began conveying away the baggage. 

Owing to Mr. Adolph's systematic arrangements, when St. Clare turned 
round from paying the hackman, there was nobody in view but Mr. 
Adolph himself, conspicuous in satin vest, gold guard chain, and white 
pants, and bowing with inexpressible grace and suavity. 

" Ah, Adolph, is it you ? " said his master, offering his hand to him ; 
" how are you, boy ? " while Adolph poured forth, with great fluency, aw 
extemporary speech, which he had been preparing, with great care, for a 
fortnight before. 

" Well, well," said St. Clare, passing on, with his usual air of negligent 


drollery, " that 's very well got up, Adolph. See that the baggage is well 
bestowed. I '11 come to the people in a minute " ; and so saying, he led 
Miss Ophelia to a large parlour that opened on to the verandah. 

While this had been passing, Eva had flown like a bird through the 
porch and parlour, to a little boudoir opening likewise on the verandah. 

A tall, dark-eyed, sallow woman half rose from a couch on which she 
was reclining. 

" Mamma ! " said Eva, in a sort of rapture, throwing herself on her 
neck, and embracing her over and over again. 

" That '11 do — take care, child — don't you make my head ache ! " said 
the mother, after she had languidly kissed her. 

St. Clare came in, embraced his wife in true, orthodox, husbandly 
fashion, and then presented to her his cousin. Marie lifted her large eyes 
on her cousin with an air of some curiosity, and received her with languid 
politeness. A crowd of servants now pressed to the entry-door, and 
among them a middle-aged mulatto woman, of very respectable appearance, 
stood foremost, in a tremor of expectation and joy, at the door. 

" Oh, there 's Mammy ! " said Eva, as she flew across the room ; and, 
throwing herself into her arms, she kissed her repeatedly. 

This woman did not tell her that she made her head ache, but, on the 
contrary, she hugged her, and laughed, and cried, till her sanity was a 
thing to be doubted of; and when released from her, Eva flew from one 
to another, shaking hands and kissing, in a way that Miss Ophelia after- 
wards declared fairly turned her stomach, 

" Well ! " said Miss Ophelia, " you southern children can do something 
that /couldn't." 

" What now, pray ? " said St. Clare. 

" Well, I want to be kind to everybody, and I wouldn't have anything 
hurt ; but as to kissing " 

" Niggers," said St. Clare, " that you 're not up to, eh ? " 

" Yes, that 's it. How can she ? " 

St. Clare laughed, as he went into the passage. " Hulloa, here, what 's 
to pay out here ? Here, you all — Mammy, Jimmy, Polly, Sukey — glad to 
see mas'r?" he said, as he went shaking hands from one to another. 
" Look out for the babies ! " he added, as he stumbled over a sooty little 
urchin who was crawling upon all fours. "If I step upon anybody, let 
'em mention it." 

There was an abundance of laughing and blessing mas'r, as St. Clare 
distributed small pieces of change among them. 

" Come, now, take yourselves off, like good boys and girls," he said ; 
and the whole assemblage, dark and light, disappeared through a door 
into a large verandah, followed by Eva, who carried a large satchel, which 
she had been fiUing with apples, nuts, candy, ribbons, laces, and toys 
of every description, during her whole homeward journey. 

As St. Clare turned to go back, his eye fell upon Tom, who was standing 
uneasily, shifting from one foot to the other, while Adolph stood negligently 
leaning against the banisters, examining Tom through an opera-glass, with 
an air that would have done credit to any dandy living. 

" Puh ! you puppy," said his master, striking down the opera-glass ; 
"is that the way you treat your company? Seems to me, 'Dolph," he 
added, laying his fingers on the elegant figured satin vest that Adolph was 
sporting, " seems to me that 's my vest." 

" Oh ! master, this vest all stained with wine ! of course, a gentleman in 


master's standing never wears a vest like this. I understood I was to take 
it. It does for a poor nigger-fellow like me." 

And Adolph tossed his head, and passed his fingers through his scented 
hair with a grace. 

" So that 's it, is it ? " said St. Clare carelessly. " Well, here, I 'm going 
to show this Tom to his mistress, and then you take him to the kitchen ; 
and mind you don't put on any of your airs to him. He's worth two 
such puppies as you." 

" Master always will have his joke," said Adolph, laughing. " I 'm 
delighted to see master in such spirits." 

" Here, Tom," said St. Clare, beckoning. 

Tom entered the room. He looked wistfully on the velvet carpets, and 
the before unimagined splendours of mirrors, pictures, statues, and curtains, 
and, like the Queen of Sheba before Solomon, there was no more spirit in 
him. He looked afraid even to set his feet down. 

" See here, Marie," said St. Clare to his wife, " I 've bought you a 
coachman, at last, to order. I tell you, he 's a regular hearse for blackness 
and sobriety, and will drive you like a funeral, if you want. Open your 
eyes, now, and look at him. Now, don't say I never think about you 
when I 'm gone." 

Marie opened her eyes, and fixed them on Tom, without rising. 

" I know he '11 get drunk," she said. 

" No, he 's warranted a pious and sober article." 

" Well, I hope he may turn out well," said the lady ; " it 's more than I 
expect, though." 

" 'Dolph," said St. Clare, " show Tom downstairs ; and, mind yourself," 
he added ; " remember what I told you." 

Adolph tripped gracefully forward, and Tom, with lumbering tread, 
went after. 

" He 's a perfect behemoth ! " said Marie. 

" Come, now, Marie," said St. Clare, seating himself on a stool beside 
her sofa, " be gracious and say something pretty to a fellow." 

" You 've been gone a fortnight beyond the time," said the lady, 

"Well, you know I wrote you the reason." 

" Such a short, cold letter ! " said the lady. 

" Dear me ! the mail was just going, and it had to be that or nothing." 

"That's just the way always," said the lady; "always something to 
make your journeys long, and letters short." 

" See here, now," he added, drawing an elegant velvet case out of his 
pocket, and opening it ; " here 's a present I got for you in New York," 
It was a daguerreotype, clear and soft as an engraving, representing Eva 
and her father sitting hand in hand. 

Marie looked at it with a dissatisfied air. 

" What made you sit in such an awkward position ? " she said. 

" Well, the position may be a matter of opinion ; but what do you think 
of the likeness ? " 

" If you don't think anything of my opinion in one case, I suppose you 
wouldn't in another," said the lady, shutting the daguerreotype. 

" Hang the woman, said St. Clare mentally ; but aloud he added, 
" Come, now, Marie, what do you think of the likeness ? Don't be 
nonsensical, now." 

" It 's very inconsiderate of you, St. Clare," said the lady, " to insist oi> 


my talking and looking at things. You know I 've been lying all day with 
the sick-headache ; and there 's been such a tumult made ever since you 
came, I 'm half dead." 

"You're subject to the sick-headache, ma'am?" said Miss Ophelia, 
suddenly rising from the depths of the large arm-chair, where she had sat 
quietly, taking an inventory of the furniture, and calculating its expense. 

"Yes, I 'm a perfect martyr to it," said the lady. 

" Juniper-berry tea is good for the sick-headache," said Miss Ophelia ; 
" at least, Augusta, Deacon Abraham Perry's wife used to say so ; and she 
was a great nurse." 

" I '11 have the first juniper-berries that get ripe in our garden by the 
lake brought in for that especial purpose," said St. Clare gravely, pulling 
the bell as he did so j " meanwhile, cousin, you must be wanting to retire 
to your apartment, and refresh yourself a little, after your journey. 'Dolph," 
he added, "tell Mammy to come here." The decent mulatto woman 
whom Eva had caressed so rapturously soon entered; she was dressed 
neatly, with a high red and yellow turban on her head, the recent gift 
of Eva, and which the child had been arranging on her head. " Mammy," 
said St. Clare, " I put this lady under your care ; she is tired, and wants 
rest. Take her to her chamber, and be sure she is made comfortable " ; 
and Miss Ophelia disappeared in the rear of Mammy. 


tom's mistress and her opinions. 

^* And now, Marie," said St. Clare, " your golden days are dawning. Here 
is our practical, business-like New England cousin, who will take the 
whole budget of cares off your shoulders, and give you time to refresh 
yourself, and grow young and handsome. The ceremony of delivering 
the keys had better come off forthwith." 

This remark was made at the breakfast-table, a few mornings after Miss 
Ophelia had arrived. 

" I 'm sure she 's welcome," said Marie, leaning her head languidly on 
her hand. " I think she '11 find one thing if she does ; and that is, that 
it 's we mistresses that are the slaves down here. 

" Oh, certainly, she will discover that, and a world of wholesome truths 
besides, no doubt!" said St. Clare. 

"Talk about our keeping slaves, as if we did it for our convenience^'' 
said Marie. " I 'm sure, if we consulted that, we might let them all go at 

Evangeline fixed her large, serious eyes on her mother's face, with an 
earnest and perplexed expression, and said simply, "What do you keep 
them for, mamma?" 

" I don't know, I 'm sure, except for a plague ; they are the plague of 
my life. I believe that more of my ill-health is caused by them than by 
any one thing ; and ours, I know, are the very worst that ever anybody 
was plagued with." 

" Oh, come, Marie, you 've got the blues this morning," said St. Clare. 
*' You know 't isn't so. There 's Mammy, the best creature living — what 
-could you do without her?" 


"Mammy is the best I ever knew," said Marie; "and yet, Mammy, 
now, is selfish — dreadfully selfish ; it 's the fault of the whole race." 

" Selfishness is a dreadful fault," said St. Clare, gravely. 

" Well, now, there 's Mammy," said Marie, " I think it 's selfish of her 
to sleep so sound at nights ; she knows I need little attentions almost 
every hour, when my worst turns are on, and yet she 's so hard to wake. 
I absolutely am worse this very morning, for the efforts I had to make to 
wake her last night." 

" Hasn't she sat up with you a good many nights lately, mamma?" said 

"How should you know that?" said Marie sharply; "she's been 
complaining, I suppose." 

" She didn't complain ; she only told me what bad nights you 'd had — 
so many in succession." 

" Why don't you let Jane or Rosa take her place a night or two," said 
St. Clare, "and let her rest?" 

"How can you propose it?" said Marie. "St. Clare, you really are 
inconsiderate ! So nervous as I am, the least breath disturbs me ; and a 
strange hand about me would drive me absolutely frantic. If Mammy 
felt the interest in me she ought to she'd wake easier — of course she 
would. I 've heard of people who had such devoted servants, but it 
never was my luck " ; and Marie sighed. 

Miss Ophelia had listened to this conversation with an air of shrewd, 
observant gravity; and she still kept her lips tightly compressed, as if 
determined fully to ascertain her longitude and position, before she com- 
mitted herself. 

"Now, Mammy has a sort of goodness," said Marie; "she's smooth 
and respectful, but she 's selfish at heart. Now, she never will be done 
fidgeting and worrying about that husband of hers. You see, when I was 
married and came to live here, of course I had to bring her with me, and 
her husband my father couldn't spare. He was a blacksmith, and, of 
course, very necessary ; and I thought and said, at the time, that Mammy 
and he had better give each other up, as it wasn't likely to be convenient 
for them ever to live together again. I wish now I 'd insisted on it, and 
married Mammy to somebody else ; but I was foolish and indulgent, and 
didn't want to insist. I told Mammy at the time that she mustn't ever 
expect to see him more than once or twice in her life again, for the air of 
father's place doesn't agree with my health, and I can't go there ; and 
I advised her to take up with somebody else; but no — she wouldn't. 
Mammy has a kind of obstinacy about her, in spots, that everybody don't 
see as I do." 

"Has she children?" said Miss Ophelia. 

" Yes ; she has two." 

" I suppose she feels the separation from them ?" 

" Well, of course I couldn't bring them. They were little dirty things 
— I couldn't have them about ; and, besides, they took up too much of 
her time ; but I believe that Mammy has always kept up a sort of sulki- 
ness about this. She won't marry anybody else ; and I do believe, now, 
though she knows how necessary she is to me, and how feeble my 
health is, she would go back to her husband to-morrow if she only could. 
I do, indeed," said Marie; "they are just so selfish, now, the best of 

" It 's distressing to reflect upon," said St, Clare drily. 


Miss Ophelia looked keenly at him, and saw the flush of mortification 
and repressed vexation, and the sarcastic curl of the lip, as he spoke. 

" Now, Mammy has always been a pet with me," said Marie. " I wish 
some of your northern servants could look at her closets of dresses — silks 
and muslins, and one real linen cambric, she has hanging there. I 've 
worked sometimes whole afternoons, trimming her caps, and getting her 
ready to go to a party. As to abuse, she don't know what it is. She 
never was whipped more than once or twice in her whole life. She has 
her strong coffee or her tea every day, with white sugar in it. It's 
abominable, to be sure ! but St. Clare will have high life below stairs, and 
they every one of them live just as they please. The fact is, our servants 
are over indulged. I suppose it is partly our fault that they are selfish, 
and act like spoiled children; but I have talked to St. Clare till I am 

" And I too," said St. Clare, taking up the morning paper. 

Eva, the beautiful Eva, had stood listening to her mother, with that 
expression of deep and mystic earnestness which was peculiar to her. She 
walked softly round to her mother's chair, and put her arms round her neck. 

"Well, Eva, what now?" said Marie. 

" Mamma, couldn't I take care of you one night — ^just one ? I know I 
shouldn't make you nervous, and I shouldn't sleep. I often lie awake 
nights, thinking " 

"Oh, nonsense, child — nonsense!" said Marie; "you are such a 
strange child !" 

"But may I, mamma? I think," she said timidly, "that Mammy isn't 
well. She told me her head ached all the time, lately." 

" Oh, that 's just one of Mammy's fidgets ! Mammy is just like all the 
rest of them — makes such a fuss about every little headache or finger- 
ache ; it '11 never do to encourage it — never ! I 'm principled about this 
matter," said she, turning to Miss Ophelia ; " you '11 find the necessity of 
it. If you encourage servants in giving way to every disagreeable feeling, 
and complaining of every little ailment, you '11 have your hands full. I 
never complain myself — nobody knows what I endure. I feel it a duty to 
bear it quietly, and I do." 

Miss Ophelia's round eyes expressed an undisguised amazement at this 
peroration, which struck St. Clare as so supremely ludicrous that he burst 
into a loud laugh. 

"St. Clare always laughs when I make the least allusion to my ill- 
health," said Marie, with the voice of a suffering martyr. " I only hope 
the day won't come when he'll remember it!" and Marie put her hand- 
kerchief to her eyes. 

Of course, there was rather a foolish silence. Finally, St. Clare got up, 
looked at his watch, and said he had an engagement down street. Eva 
tripped away after him, and Miss Ophelia and Marie remained at the 
table alone. 

"Now, that's just like St. Clare!" said the latter, withdrawing her 
handkerchief, with somewhat of a spirited flourish, when the criminal ta 
be affected by it was no longer in sight. " He never realizes, never can, 
and never will, what I suffer, and have for years. If I was one of the 
complaining sort, or ever made any fuss about my ailments, there would 
be some reason for it. Men do get tired, naturally, of a complaining 
wife. But I 've kept things to myself, and borne, and borne, till St. Clare 
has got in the way of thinking I can bear anything." 


Miss Ophelia did not exactly know what she was expected to answer to 

While she was thinking what to say, Marie gradually wiped away her 
tears, and smoothed her plumage in a general sort of way, as a dove 
might be supposed to make toilet after a shower, and began a housewifely 
chat with Miss Ophelia, concerning cupboards, closets, linen-presses, store- 
rooms, and other matters, of which the latter was, by common under- 
standing, to assume the direction — giving her so many cautions, directions, 
and charges, that a head less systematic and business-like than Miss 
Ophelia's would have been utterly dizzied and confounded. 

" And now," said Marie, " I believe I 've told you everything ; so that, 
when my next sick turn comes on, you '11 be able to go forward entirely, 
without consulting me ; only about Eva — she requires watching." 

" She seems to be a good child, very," said Miss Ophelia ; " I never saw 
a better child." 

"Eva's peculiar," said her mother, "very. There are things about her 
so singular ; she isn't like me, now, a particle " ; and Marie sighed, as if 
this was a truly melancholy consideration. 

Miss Ophelia in her own heart said, " I hope she isn't," but had prudence 
enough to keep it down. 

" Eva always was disposed to be with servants ; and I think that well 
enough with some children. Now, I always played with father's little 
negroes — it never did me any harm. But Eva somehow always seems to 
put herself on an equality with every creature that comes near her. It 's a 
strange thing about the child. I never have been able to break her of it. 
St. Clare, I believe, encourages her in it. The fact is, St. Clare indulges 
every creature under this roof but his own wife." 

Again Miss Ophelia sat in blank silence. 

"Now, there's no way with servants," said Marie, "but to put thevi 
down, and keep them down. It was always natural to me, from a child. 
Eva is enough to spoil a whole houseful. What she will do when she 
comes to keep house herself, I 'm sure I don't know. I hold to being kind 
to servants — I always am ; but you must make 'em know their place. Eva 
never does ; but there 's no getting into the child's head the first beginning 
of an idea what a servant's place is ! You heard her offering to take care 
of me nights, to let Mammy sleep. That 's just a specimen of the way 
the child would be doing all the time, if she was left to herself" 

" Why," said Miss Ophelia bluntly, " I suppose you think your servants 
are human creatures, and ought to have some rest when they are tired ? " 

" Certainly, of course. I 'm very particular in letting them have every- 
thing that comes convenient — anything that doesn't put one at all out of 
the way, you know. Mammy can make up her sleep, some time or other : 
there 's no difficulty about that. She 's the sleepiest concern that ever I 
saw ; sewing, standing, or sitting, that creature will go to sleep, and sleep 
anywhere and c^'crywhere. No danger but Mammy gets sleep enough. 
But this treating servants as if they were exotic flowers, or china vases, is 
really ridiculous," said Marie, as she plunged into the depths of a 
voluminous and pillowy lounge, and drew towards her an elegant cut-glass 

"You see," she continued, in a faint and lady-like voice, like the last 
dying breath of an Arabian jessamine, or something equally ethereal, 
"you see. Cousin Ophelia, I don't often speak of myself. It isn't my 
habit ; 't isn't agreeable to me. In fact, I haven't strength to do it. But 


there are points where St. Clare and I differ, St. Clare never understood 
me, never appreciated me. I think it lies at the root of all my ill-health. 
St. Clare means well, I am bound to believe ; but men are constitutionally 
selfish and inconsiderate to women. That, at least, is my impression." 

Miss Ophelia, who had not a small share of the genuine New England 
caution, and a very particular horror of being drawn into family difficulties, 
now began to foresee something of this kind impending; so, composing 
her face into a grim neutrality, and drawing out of her pocket about a yard 
and a quarter of stocking, which she kept as a specific against what Dr. 
Watts asserts to be a personal habit of Satan when people have idle hands, 
she proceeded to knit most energetically, shutting her lips together in a 
way that said, as plain as words could, "You needn't try to make me 
speak. I don't want anything to do with your affairs"— in fact, she looked 
about as sympathising as a stone lion. But Marie didn't care for that. 
She had got somebody to talk to, and she felt it her duty to talk, and that 
was enough ; and reinforcing herself by smelling again at her vinaigrette, 
she went on. 

"You see, I brought my own property and servants into the connection, 
when I married St. Clare, and I am legally entitled to manage them my 
own way. St. Clare had his fortune and his servants, and I 'm well enough 
content he should manage them his way ; but St. Clare will be interfering. 
He has wild, extravagant notions about things, particularly about the treat- 
ment of servants. He really does act as if he set his servants before me, 
and before himself, too ; for he lets them make him all sorts of trouble, 
and never lifts a finger. Now, about some things, St. Clare is really fright- 
ful — he frightens me — good-natured as he looks in general. Now, he has 
set down his foot that, come what will, there shall not be a blow struck in 
this house, except what he or I strike; and he does it in a way that I really 
dare not cross him. Well, you may see what that leads to ; for St. Clare 
wouldn't raise his hand, if every one of them walked over him, and I — ■ 
you see how cruel it would be to require me to make the exertion. Now, 
you know, these servants are nothing but grown-up children." 

" I don't know anything about it, and I thank the Lord that I don't ! " 
said Miss Ophelia shortly. 

" Well, but you will have to know something, and know it to your cost, 
if you stay here. You don't know what a provoking, stupid, careless, 
unreasonable, childish, ungrateful set of wretches they are." 

Marie seemed wonderfully supported, always, when she got upon this 
topic; and she now opened her eyes, and seemed quite to forget her 

"You don't know, and you can't, the daily, hourly trials that beset a 
housekeeper from them, everywhere and every way. But it 's no use to 
complain to St. Clare. He talks the strangest stuff. He says we have 
made them what they are, and ought to bear with them. He says their 
faults are all owing to us, and that it would be cruel to make the fault and 
punish it too. He says we shouldn't do any better in their place ; just as 
if one could reason from them to us, you know." 

" Don't you believe that the Lord made them of one blood with us ? " 
said Miss Ophelia shortly. 

"No, indeed, not I! A pretty story, truly! They are a degraded race!" 

"Don't you think they've got immortal souls?" said Miss Ophelia, 
with increasing indignation. 

"Oh, Avell," said Marie, yawning, "that, of course — nobody doubts that. 


But as to putting them on any sort of equality with us, you know, as if we 
could be compared, why, it 's impossible ! Now, St. Clare really has talked 
to me as if keeping Mammy from her husband was like keeping me from 
mine. There's no comparing in this way. Mammy couldn't have the 
feelings that I should. It 's a different thing altogether — of course it is ; 
and yet St. Clare pretends not to see it. And just as if Mammy could 
love her little dirty babies as I love Eva ! Yet St. Clare once really and 
soberly tried to persuade me that it was my duty, with my weak health, 
and all I suffer, to let Mammy go back, and take somebody else in her 
place. That was a little too much even for me to bear. I don't often 
show my feelings. I make it a principle to endure everything in silence ; 
it 's a wife's hard lot, and I bear it. But I did break out that time ; so 
that he has never alluded to the subject since. But I know, by his looks, 
and little things that he says, that he thinks so as much as ever ; and it 's 
so trying, so provoking ! " 

Miss Ophelia looked very much as if she was afraid she should say 
something; but she rattled away with her needles in a way that had 
volumes of meaning in it, if Marie could only have understood it. 

"So, you just see," she continued, "what you've got to manage. A 
household without any rule ; where servants have it all their own way, do 
what they please, and have what they please, except so far as I, with my 
feeble health, have kept up government. I keep my cowhide about, 
and sometimes I do lay it on; but the exertion is always too much for me. 
If St. Clare would only have this thing done as others do " 

" And how 's that ? " 

"Why, send them to the calaboose, or some of the other places, to 
be flogged. That's the only way. If I wasn't such a poor, feeble 
piece, I believe I should manage with twice the energy that St. Clare 

"And how does St. Clare contrive to manage?" said Miss Opheha. 
"You say he never strikes a blow." 

"Well, men have a more commanding way, you know; it is easier for 
them ; besides, if you ever looked full in his eye, it 's peculiar — that eye — 
and if he speaks decidedly, there 's a kind of flash. I 'm afraid of it 
myself; and the servants know they must mind. I couldn't do as much 
by a regular storm and scolding as St. Clare can by one turn of his eye, if 
once he is in earnest. Oh, there 's no trouble about St. Clare ; that 's the 
reason he 's no more feeling for me. But you '11 find, when you come to 
manage, that there 's no getting along without severity — they are so bad, 
so deceitful, so lazy." 

"The old tune," said St. Clare, sauntering in. "'What an awful account 
these wicked creatures will have to settle at last, especially for being lazy ! 
You see, cousin," said he, as he stretched himself at full length on a lounge 
opposite to Marie, " it 's wholly inexcusable in them, in the light of the 
example that Marie and I set them, this laziness." 

" Come, now, St. Clare, you are too bad ! " said Marie. 

" Am I now ? Why, I thought I was talking good, quite remarkably for 
me. I try to enforce your remarks, Marie, always." 

*' You know you meant no such thing, St. Clare," said Marie. 

"Oh, I must have been mistaken, then. Thank you, my dear, for 
setting me right." 

"You do really try to be provoking," said Marie. 

^* Oh, come, Marie, the day is growing warm, and I have just had g. 


long quarrel with 'Dolph, which has fatigued me excessively ; so, pray be 
agreeable, now, and let a fellow repose in the light of your smile." 

"What's the matter about 'Dolph?" said Marie. "That fellow's 
impudence has been growing to a point that is perfectly intolerable to me. 
I only wish I had the undisputed management of him a while. I 'd bring 
liim down ! " 

" What you say, my dear, is marked with your usual acuteness and good 
sense," said St. Clare. " As to 'Dolph, the case is this : that he has 
so long been engaged in imitating my graces and perfections, that he has 
at last really mistaken himself for his master ; and I have been obliged to 
give him a little insight into his mistake." 

" How ? " said Marie. 

" Why, I was obliged to let him understand explicitly that I preferred to 
keep some of my clothes for my own personal wearing; also, I put 
his magnificence upon an allowance of cologne water, and actually was so 
cruel as to restrict him to one dozen of my cambric handkerchiefs. 
'Dolph was particularly huffy about it, and I had to talk to him like 
a father to bring him round." 

"Oh, St. Clare, when will you learn how to treat your servants? It's 
abominable, the way you indulge them ! " said Marie. 

"Why, after all, what's the harm of the poor dog's wanting to be 
like his master? and if I haven't brought him up any better than to 
find his chief good in cologne and handkerchiefs, why shouldn't I give 
them to him?" 

"And why haven't you brought him up better?" said Miss Ophelia, 
with blunt determination. 

" Too much trouble ; laziness, cousin, laziness — which ruins more souls 
than you can shake a stick at. If it weren't for laziness, I should 
have been a perfect angel myself. I'm inclined to think that laziness 
is what your old Dr. Botherem, up in Vermont, used to call the ' essence 
of moral evil.' It's an awful consideration, certainly." 

" I think you slaveholders have an awful responsibility upon you," said 
Miss Ophelia. " I wouldn't have it for a thousand worlds. You ought to 
educate your slaves, and treat them like reasonable creatures, like 
immortal creatures, that you've got to stand before the bar of God 
with. That's my mind," said the good lady, breaking suddenly out 
with a tide of zeal that had been gaining strength in her mind all the 

" Oh ! come, come," said St. Clare, getting up quickly ; " what do 
you know about us ? " And he sat down to the piano, and rattled a lively 
piece of music. St. Clare had a decided genius for music. His touch 
was brilliant and firm, and his fingers flew over the keys with a rapid and 
bird-like motion, airy, and yet decided. He played piece after piece, like 
a man who is trying to play himself into a good humour. After pushing 
the music aside, he rose up and said gaily, "Well, now, cousin, you've 
given us a good talk, and done your duty; on the whole, I think the 
better of you for it. I make no manner of doubt that you threw a very 
diamond of truth at me, though, you see, it hit me so directly in the face 
that it wasn't exactly appreciated at first." 

" For my part, I don't see any use in such sort of talk," said Marie. 
"I'm sure, if anybody does more for servants than we do, I'd like 
to know who ; and it don't do 'em a bit of good — not a particle ; they get 
worse and worse. As to talking to them, or anything like that, I 'm sure I 


have talked till I was tired and hoarse, telling them their duty, and all 
that; and I'm sure they can go to church when they like, though 
they don't understand a word of the sermon, more than so many pigs, so 
it isn't of any great use for them to go, as I see ; but they do go, and so they 
have every chance; but, as I said before, they are a degraded race, 
and always will be, and there isn't any help for them ; you can't make any- 
thing of them, if you try. You see. Cousin Ophelia, I 've tried, and 
you haven't ; I was born and bred among them, and I know." 

Miss Ophelia thought she had said enough, and therefore sat silent. St. 
Clare whistled a tune. 

"St. Clare, I wish you wouldn't whistle," said Marie; "it makes 
my head worse." 

"I won't," said St. Clare. "Is there anything else you wouldn't wish 
me to do ? " 

" I wish you would have some kind of sympathy for my trials ; you 
never have any feeHng for me." 

" My dear accusing angel ! " said St. Clare. 

" It 's provoking to be talked to in that way ! " 

" Then how will you be talked to ? I '11 talk to order — any way you'll 
mention, only to give satisfaction." 

A gay laugh from the court rang through the silken curtains of the 
verandah. St. Clare stepped out, and, lifting up the curtain, laughed 

" What is it ? " said Miss Ophelia, coming to the railing. 

There sat Tom, on a little mossy seat in the court, every one of 
his button-holes stuck full of cape jessamines ; and Eva, gaily laughing, 
was hanging a wreath of roses round his neck ; and then she sat down on 
his knee like a chip-sparrow, still laughing. 

" Oh, Tom, you look so funny ! " 

Tom had a sober, benevolent smile, and seemed, in his quiet way, 
to be enjoying the fun quite as much as his little mistress. He lifted 
his eyes, when he saw his master, with a half-deprecating, apologetic 

" How can you let her ? " said Miss Ophelia. 

"Why not? "said St. Clare. 

" Why, I don't know, it seems so dreadful." 

"You would think no harm in a child's caressing a large dog, even 
if he was black ; but a creature that can think, and reason, and feel, 
and is immortal, you shudder at ; confess it, cousin. I know the 
feeling among some of you northerners, well enough. Not that there 
is a particle of virtue in our not having it ; but custom with us does 
what Christianity ought to do — obliterates the feeling of personal 
prejudice. I have often noticed, in my travels north, how much stronger 
this was with you than with us. You loathe them as you would a snake or 
a toad, yet you are indignant at their wrongs. You would not have them 
abused, but you don't want to have anything to do with them yourselves. 
You would send them to Africa, out of your sight and smell, and then 
send a missionary or two to do up all the self-denial of elevating them 
compendiously. Isn't that' it ? " 

" Well, cousin," said Miss Ophelia thoughtfully, " there may be some 
truth in this. 

" What would the poor and lowly do without children ? " said St. Clare, 
leaning on the railing, and watching Eva as she tripped oif leading 


Tom with her. "Your little child is your only true democrat. Tom, 
now, is a hero to Eva ; his stories are wonders in her eyes, his songs and 
Methodist hymns are better than an opera, and the traps and little 
bits of trash in his pocket a mine of jewels, and he the most wonderful 
Tom that ever wore a black skin. This is one of the roses of Eden that 
the Lord has dropped down expressly for the poor and lowly, who get few 
enough of any other kind." 

" It 's strange, cousin," said Miss Ophelia ; " one might almost 
think you were a professor^ to hear you talk." 

" A professor ? " said St. Clare. 

*' Yes ; a professor of religion." 

" Not at all : not a professor, as your town folks have it ; and, what 
is worse, I 'm afraid, not a pradiser^ either." 

" What makes you talk so, then ? " 

"Nothing is easier than talking," said St. Clare. "I believe Shake- 
speare makes somebody say, 'I could sooner show twenty that were 
good to be done, than be one of the twenty to follow my own showing.' 
Nothing like division of labour. My forte hes in talking; and yours, 
cousin, lies in doing." 

In Tom's external situation, at this time, there was, as the world 
says, nothing to complain of. Little Eva's fancy for him — the instinctive 
gratitude and loveliness of a noble nature— had led her to petition her 
father that he might be her especial attendant, whenever she needed 
the escort of a servant, in her walks or rides ; and Tom had general 
orders to let everything else go, and attend to Miss Eva whenever 
she wanted him — orders which our readers may fancy were far from 
disagreeable to him. He was kept well dressed, for St. Clare was 
fastidiously particular on this point. His stable services were merely 
a sinecure, and consisted simply in a daily care and inspection, and 
directing an under servant in his duties ; for Marie St. Clare declared that 
she could not have any smell of the horses about him when he came near 
her, and that he must positively not be put to any service that would make 
him unpleasant to her, as her nervous system was entirely inadequate 
to any trial of that nature; one snuff of anything disagreeable being, 
according to her account, quite sufficient to close the scene, and put 
an end to all her earthly trials at once. Tom, therefore, in his well- 
brushed broadcloth suit, smooth beaver, glossy boots, faultless wrist- 
bands and collar, with his grave, good-natured black face, looked 
respectable enough to be a Bishop of Carthage, as men of his colour were 
in other ages. 

Then, too, he was in a beautiful place, a consideration to which 
his sensitive race are never indifferent; and he did enjoy with a quiet 
joy the birds, the flowers, the fountains, the perfume, and light and beauty 
of the court, the silken hangings, and pictures, and lustres, and statuettes, 
and gilding that made the parlours within a kind of Aladdin's palace 
to him. 

If ever Africa shall show an elevated and cultivated race — and come it 
must, some time, her turn to figure in the great drama of human improve- 
ment — life will awake there with a gorgeousness and splendour of which 
our cold western tribes faintly have conceived. In that far-off mystic 
land of gold and gems, and spices, and waving palms and wondrous^ 


flowers, and miraculous fertility, will awake new forms of art, new styles of 
splendour ; and the negro race, no longer despised and trodden down, will, 
perhaps, show forth some of the latest and most magnificent revelations of 
human life. Certainly they will in their gentleness, their lowly dociUty of 
heart, their aptitude to repose on a superior mind and rest on a higher 
power, their childlike simplicity of affection, and facility of forgiveness. 
In all these they will exhibit the highest form of the peculiarly Christian 
life ; and, perhaps, as God chasteneth whom he loveth, he hath chosen 
poor Africa in the furnace of affliction, to make her the highest and 
noblest in that kingdom which he will set up when every other king- 
dom has been tried and failed ; for the first shall be last, and the 
last first. 

Was this what Marie St. Clare was thinking of, as she stood, gorgeously 
dressed, on the verandah, one Sunday morning, clasping a diamond 
bracelet on her slender wrist ? Most likely it was. Or, if it wasn't that, 
it was something else; for Marie patronised good things, and she was 
going now in full force — diamonds, silk, and lace, and jewels and all — to 
a fashionable church, to be very religious. Marie always made a point to 
be very pious on Sundays. There she stood, so slender, so elegant, so 
airy and undulating in all her motions, her lace scarf enveloping her like 
a mist. She looked a graceful creature, and she felt very good and very 
elegant indeed. Miss Ophelia stood at her side, a perfect contrast. It 
was not that she had not as handsome a silk dress and shawl, and as fine 
a pocket handkerchief; but stiffness, and squareness, and bolt-uprightness, 
enveloped her with as indefinite yet appreciable a presence as did grace 
her elegant neighbour; not the grace of God, however — that is quite 
another thing ! 

"Where's Eva?" said Marie. 

" The child stopped on the stairs to say something to Mammy." 

And what was Eva saying to Mammy on the stairs? Listen, reader, 
and you will hear, though Marie does not. 

" Dear Mammy, I know your head is aching dreadfully." 

" Lord bless you. Miss Eva ! my head allers aches lately. You don't 
need to worry." 

" Well, I 'm glad you 're going out ; and here " — and the little girl threw 
her arms around her — " Mammy, you shall take my vinaigrette." 

" What ! your beautiful gold thing, thar, with them diamonds ! Lor', 
miss, 't wouldn't be proper, no ways." 

"Why not? You need it, and I don't. Mamma always uses it for 
headache, and it '11 make you feel better. No, you shall take it, to please 
me, now." 

"Do hear the darling talk!" said Mammy, as Eva thrust it into her 
bosom, and kissing her, ran downstairs to her mother. 

" What were you stopping for?" 

" I was just stopping to give Mammy my vinaigrette, to take to church 
with her." 

"Eva!" said Marie, stamping impatiently, "your gold vinaigrette to 
Majnniy I When will you learn what 's proper ? Go right and take it 
back this moment !" 

Eva looked downcast and aggrieved, and turned slowly. 

" I say, Marie, let the child alone ; she shall do as she pleases," said St. 

"St. Clare, how will she ever get along in the world?" said Marie. 


"The Lord knows," said St. Clare, "but she'll get along in heaven 
better than you or I." 

"Oh, papa, don't!" said Eva, softly touching his elbow j "it troubles 

"Well, cousin, are you ready to go to meeting?" said Miss Ophelia, 
turning square about on St. Clare. 

" I 'm not going, thank you." 

"I do wish St. Clare ever would go to church," said Marie; "but he 
hasn't a particle of religion about him. It really isn't respectable." 

" I know it," said St. Clare. " You ladies go to church to learn how to 
get along in the world, I suppose, and your piety sheds respectability on 
us. If I do go at all, I would go where Mammy goes ; there 's something 
to keep a fellow awake there, at least." 

"What! those shouting Methodists ? Horrible !" said Marie. 

"Anything but the dead sea of your respectable churches, Marie. 
Positively, it's too much to ask of a man. Eva, do you like to go? 
Come, stay at home and play with me." 

" Thank you, papa ; but I 'd rather go to church." 

"Isn't it dreadful tiresome?" said St. Clare. 

" I think it is tiresome, some," said Eva, " and I am sleepy, too, but I 
try to keep awake." 

" What do you go for, then ?" 

" Why, you know, papa," she said, in a whisper, " cousin told me that 
God wants to have us; and he gives us everything, you know; and it 
isn't much to do it, if he wants us to. It isn't so very tiresome, after 

"You sweet little obliging soul!" said St. Clare, kissing her. "Go 
along, that's a good girl, and pray for me." 

" Certainly, I always do," said the child, as she sprang after her mother 
into the carriage. 

St. Clare stood on the steps and kissed his hand to her, as the carriage 
drove away ; large tears were in his eyes. 

" Oh, Evangeline ! rightly named," he said ; " hath not God made thee 
an evangel to me?" 

So he felt a moment; and then he smoked a cigar, and read the 
Picayune, and forgot his little gospel. Was he much unlike other folks? 

" You see, Evangeline," said her mother, " it 's always right and proper 
to be kind to servants ; but it isn't proper to treat them just as we would 
our relations, or people in our own class of life. Now, if Mammy was 
sick, you wouldn't want to put her in your own bed?" 

" I should feel just like it, mamma," said Eva, " because then it would 
be handier to take care of her, and because, you know, my bed is better 
than hers." 

Marie was in utter despair at the entire want of moral perception 
evinced in this reply. 

"What can I do to make this child understand me?" she said. 

" Nothing," said Miss Ophelia significantly. 

Eva looked sorry and disconcerted for a moment ; but children, luckily, 
do not keep to one impression long ; and in a few moments she was 
merrily laughing at various things which she saw from the coach-windows, 
as it rattled along. 


"Well, ladies," said St. Clare, as they were comfortably seated at the 
dinner-table, "and what was the bill of fare at church to-day?" 

"Oh, Dr. G preached a splendid sermon!" said Marie. "It was 

just such a sermon as you ought to hear ; it expressed all my views exactly." 

"It muGt have been very improving," said St. Clare. "The subject 
must have been an extensive one." 

"Well, I mean all my views about society, and such things," said Marie. 
" The text was, ' He hath made everything beautiful in its season ' ; and he 
showed how all the orders and distinctions in society came from God; and 
that it was so appropriate, you know, and beautiful, that some should be 
high and some low, and that some were born to rule and some to serve, 
and all that, you know ; and he applied it so well to all this ridiculous fuss 
that is made about slavery; and he proved distinctly that the Bible was 
on our side, and supported all our institutions so convincingly. I only 
wish you'd heard him." 

" Oh, I didn't need it," said St. Clare. " I can learn what does me as 
much good as that from the Picayime any time, and smoke a cigar besides, 
which I can't do, you know, in a church." 

"Why," said Miss Ophelia, "don't you believe in these views?" 

" Who — I ? You know I 'm such a graceless dog that these religious 
aspects of such subjects don't edify me much. If I was to say anything 
on this slavery matter, I would say out, fair and square, ' We 're in for it ; 
we've got 'em and mean to keep 'em — it's for our convenience and our 
interest'; for that's the long and short of it; that's just the whole of what 
all this sanctified stuff amounts to, after all ; and I think that will be 
intelligible to everybody, everywhere." 

"I do think, Augustine, you are so irreverent!" said Marie. "I think 
it 's shocking to hear you talk." 

" Shocking ! it 's the truth. This religious talk on such matters, why 
don't they carry it a little further, and show the beauty, in its season, of a 
fellow's taking a glass too much, and sitting a little too late over his 
cards, and various providential arrangements of that sort, which are pretty 
frequent among us young men ; we 'd like to hear that those are right and 
godly, too." 

"Well," said Miss Ophelia, "do you think slavery right or wrong?" 

" I 'm not going to have any of your horrid New England directness, 
cousin," said St. Clare gaily. " If I answer that question, I know you '11 
be at me with half-a-dozen others, each one harder than the last ; and I 'm 
not a going to define my position. I am one of that sort that lives by 
throwing stones at other people's glass-houses; but I never mean to put 
up one for them to stone." 

" That 's just the way he 's always talking," said Marie ; " you can't get 
any satisfaction out of him. I believe it's just because he don't like 
religion that he's always running out in this way he 's been doing." 

" Religion!" said St. Clare, in a tone that made both ladies look at him. 
" Religion ! Is what you hear at church religion ? Is that which can 
bend and turn, and descend and ascend, to fit every crooked phase of 
selfish, worldly society, religion? Is that religion which is less scrupulous, 
less generous, less just, less considerate for man than even my own 
ungodly, worldly, blinded nature? No! When I look for a religion, 
I must look for something above me, and not something beneath." 

"Then you don't believe that the Bible justifies slavery?" said Miss 


"The Bible was my mother^ s book," said St. Clare. "By it she lived 
and died, and I would be very sorry to think it did. I'd as soon desire to 
have it proved that my mother could drink brandy, chew tobacco, and 
swear, by way of satisfying me that I did right in doing the same. It 
wouldn't make me at all more satisfied with these things in myself, and it 
would take from me the comfort of respecting her; and it really is a 
comfort, in tliis world, to have anything one can respect. In short, you 
see," said he, suddenly resuming his gay tone, " all I want is that different 
things be kept in different boxes. The whole framework of society, both 
in Europe and America, is made up of various things which will not stand 
the scrutiny of any very ideal standard of morality. It 's pretty generally 
understood that men don't aspire after the absolute right, but only to do 
about as well as the rest of the world. Now, when any one speaks up 
like a man, and says slavery is necessary to us, Ave can't get along without 
it, we should be beggared if we gave it up, and, of course, we mean to 
hold on to it — this is strong, clear, well-defined language ; it has the 
respectability of truth to it ; and if we may judge by their practice, the 
majority of the world will bear us out in it. But when he begins to put 
on a long face, and snuffle, and quote Scripture, I incline to think he isn't 
much better than he should be." 

" You are very uncharitable," said Marie. 

" Well," said St. Clare, " suppose that something should bring down the 
price of cotton once and for ever, and make the whole slave property 
a drug in the market; don't you think we should soon have another 
version of the Scripture doctrine ? What a flood of light would pour into 
the church, all at once, and how immediately it would be discovered that 
everything in the Bible and reason went the other way ! " 

"Well, at any rate," said Marie, as she reclined herself on a lounge, 
" I 'm thankful I 'm born where slavery exists ; and I believe it 's right — 
indeed, I feel it must be ; and, at any rate, I 'm sure I couldn't get along 
without it." 

" I say, what do you think, pussy ? " said her father to Eva, who came 
in at this moment, vs^ith a flower in her hand. 

" What about, papa ? " 

" Why, wliich do you like the best ; to live as they do at your uncle's, 
up in Vermont, or to have a house-full of servants, as we do ? " 

" Oh, of course our way is the pleasantest ! " said Eva. 

" Why so ? " said St. Clare, stroking her head. 

" AVhy, it makes so many more round you to love, you know," said Eva, 
looking up earnestly. 

"Now, that's just like Eva," said Marie; "just one of her odd 
speeches." ^ 

" Is it an odd speech, papa ? " said Eva whisperingly, as she got upon 
his knee. 

" Rather, as this world goes, pussy," said St. Clare. " But where has 
my little Eva been, all dinner-time ? " 

" Oh, I 've been up in Tom's room, hearing him sing, and Aunt Dinah 
gave me my dinner." 

" Hearing Tom sing, eh ? " 

" Oh, yes ! He sings such beautiful things about the New Jerusalem, 
and bright angels, and the land of Canaan." 

" I dare say ; it 's better than the opera, isn't it? " 

" Yes, and he 's going to teach them to me." 


" Singing-lessons, eh ? — you are coming on." 

" Yes, he sings for me, and I read to him in my Bible ; and he 
explains what it means, you know." 

"On my word," said Marie, laughing, "that is the latest joke of the 
season ! " 

" Tom isn't a bad hand, now, at explaining Scripture, I '11 dare swear," 
said St. Clare. "Tom has a natural genius for religion. I wanted the 
horses out early this morning, and I stole up to Tom's cubiculum there, 
over the stables, and there I heard him holding a meeting by himself; 
and, in fact, I haven't heard anything quite so savoury as Tom's prayer 
this some time. He put in for me with a zeal that was quite apostolic." 

" Perhaps he guessed you were listening. I 've heard of that trick 

" If he did, he wasn't very politic ; for he gave the Lord his opinion of 
me pretty freely. Tom seemed to think there was decidedly room for 
improvement in me, and seemed very earnest that I should be converted." 

" I hope you '11 lay it to heart," said Miss Ophelia. 

" I suppose you are much of the same opinion," said St. Clare. " Well, 
we shall see — shan't we, Eva ? " 


THE freeman's DEFENCE. 

There was a gentle bustle at the Quaker house, as the afternoon drew to 
a close. Rachel Halliday moved quietly to and fro, collecting from her 
household stores such needments as could be arranged in the smallest 
compass for the wanderers who were to go forth that night. The after- 
noon shadows stretched eastward, and the round red sun stood thought- 
fully on the horizon, and his beams shone yellow and calm into the little 
bedroom where George and his wife were sitting. He was sitting with his 
child on his knee, and his wife's hand in his. Both looked thoughtful 
and serious, and traces of tears were on their cheeks. 

"Yes, Eliza," said George, "I know all you say is true. You are a 
good child — a great deal better than I am ; and I will try to do as you 
say. I '11 try to act worthy of a free man. I '11 try to feel like a Christian. 
God Almighty knows that I 've meant to do well — tried hard to do well — 
when everything has been against me ; and now I '11 forget all the past, 
and put away every hard and bitter feeling, and read my Bible, and learn 
to be a good man." 

" And when we get to Canada," said Eliza, " I can help you. I can do 
dressmaking very well ; and I understand fine washing and ironing ; and 
between us we can find something to live on." 

" Yes, Eliza, so long as we have each other and our boy. Oh, Eliza, if 
these people only knew what a blessing it is for a man to feel that his ^nfe 
and child belong to him ! I 've often wondered to see men, that could 
call their wives and children their own, fretting and worrying about any- 
thing else. Why, I- feel rich and strong, though we have nothing but our 
bare hands. I feel as if I could scarcely ask God for any more. Yes, 
though I 've worked hard every day till I 'm twenty-five years old, and 
have not a cent of money, nor a roof to cover me, nor a spot of land to 
call my own, yet, if they will only let me alone now, I will be satisfied — 


thankful. I will work, and send back the money for you and my boy. 
As to my old master, he has been paid five times over for all he ever 
spent for me. I don't owe him anything." 

" But yet we are not quite out of danger," said Eliza ; " we are not yet 
in Canada." 

" True," said George ; " but it seems as if I smelt the free air, and it 
makes me strong." 

At this moment, voices were heard in the outer apartment, in earnest 
conversation, and very soon a rap was heard on the door. Eliza started 
and opened it. 

Simeon Halliday was there, and with him a Quaker brother, whom he 
introduced as Phineas Fletcher. Phineas was tall and lathy, red-haired, 
with an expression of great acuteness and shrewdness in his face. He had 
not the placid, quiet, unworldly air of Simeon Halliday ; on the contrary, 
a particularly wide-awake and au fait appearance, like a man who rather 
prides himself on knowing what he is about, and keeping a bright look- 
out ahead, peculiarities which sorted rather oddly with his broad brim and 
formal phraseology. 

"Our friend Phineas has discovered something of importance to the 
interest of thee and thy party, George," said Simeon ; " it were well for 
thee to hear it." 

"That I have," said Phineas; "and it shows the use of a man's always 
sleeping with one ear open, in certain places, as I 've always said. Last 
night I stopped at a little lone tavern, back on the road. Thee re- 
members the place, Simeon, where we sold some apples, last year, to that 
fat woman with the great ear-rings. Well, I was tired with hard driving ; 
and after my supper, I stretched myself down on a pile of bags in the 
corner, and pulled a buffalo over me, to wait till my bed was ready ; and 
what does I do, but get fast asleep." 

" With one ear open, Phineas ? " said Simeon quietly. 

" No ! I slept, ears and all, for an hour or two, for I was pretty well 
tired; but when I came to myself a little, I found that there we'C ^ome 
men in the room, sitting round a table, drinking and talking ; and I 
thought, before I made much muster, I 'd just see what they were up to, 
especially as I heard them say something about the Quakers. ' So,' says 
•one, ' they are up in the Quaker settlement, no doubt,' says he. Then I 
listened with both ears, and I found that they were talking about this very 
party. So I lay and heard them lay off all their plans. This young man, 
they said, was to be sent back to Kentucky, to his master, who was going 
to make an example of him, to keep all niggers from running away ; and 
his wife two of them were going to run down to New Orleans to sell on 
their own account, and they calculated to get sixteen or eighteen hundred 
dollars for her ; and the child, they said, was going to a trader who had 
bought him ; and then there was the boy Jim, and his mother, they were 
to go back to their masters in Kentucky. They said that there were two 
■constables, in a town a little piece ahead, who would go in with 'em to get 
'em taken up, and the young woman was to be taken before a judge ; and 
one of the fellows, who is small and smooth-spoken, was to swear to her 
for his property, and get her delivered over to him to take south. 
They 've got a right notion of the track we are going to-night ; and they '11 
be down after us, six or eight strong. So, now, what 's to be done ? " 

The group, that stood in various attitudes, after this communication 
were worthy of a painter. Rachel Halliday, who had taken her hands 


out of a batch of biscuits, to hear the news, stood with them upraised and 
floury, and with a face of the deepest concern. Simeon looked pro- 
foundly thoughtful ; Eliza had thrown her arms around her husband, and 
was looking up to him. George stood with clenched hands and glowing 
eyes, and looking as any other man might look whose wife was to be sold 
at auction, and son sent to a trader, all under the shelter of a Christian 
nation's laws. 

" What shall we do, George ? " said Eliza faintly. 

" I know what / shall do," said George, as he stepped into the little 
room, and began examining his pistols. 

"Ay, ay," said Phineas, nodding his head to Simeon; "thou seest, 
Simeon, how it will work." 

" I see," said Simeon, sighing. " I pray it come not to that." 

" I don't want to involve any one with or for me," said George. " If 
you will lend me your vehicle, and direct me, I will drive alone to the 
next stand. Jim is a giant in strength, and brave as death and despair, 
and so am I." 

" Ah, well, friend," said Phineas, " but thee '11 need a driver, for all that. 
Thee's quite welcome to do all the fighting, thee knows; but I know a 
thing or two about the road that thee doesn't." 

" But I don't want to involve you," said George. 

" Involve ? " said Phineas, with a curious and keen expression of face. 
" When thee does involve me, please to let me know." 

" Phineas is a wise and skilful man," said Simeon. " Thee does well, 
George, to abide by his judgment ; and," he added, laying his hand kindly 
on George's shoulder, and pointing to the pistols, " be not over hasty with 
these — young blood is hot." 

" I will attack no man," said George. " All I ask of this country is to 
be let alone, and I will go out peaceably ; but " — he paused, and his brow 
darkened, and his face worked — "I've had a sister sold in that New 
Orleans market. I know what they are sold for ; and am I going to stand 
by and see them take my wife and sell her, when God has given me a pair 
of strong arms to defend her ? No ; God help me ! I '11 fight to the last 
breath, before they shall take my wife and son. Can you blame me ? " 

" Mortal man cannot blame thee, George. Flesh and blood could not 
do otherwise," said Simeon. " Woe unto the world because of offences, 
but woe unto them through whom the offence cometh." 

" Would not even you, sir, do the same, in my place ? " 

" I pray that I be not tried," said Simeon ; " the flesh is weak." 

" I think my flesh would be pretty tolerable strong in such a case," said 
Phineas, stretching out a pair of arms like the sails of a windmill. " I 
an't sure, friend George, that I shouldn't hold a fellow for thee, if thee had 
any accounts to settle with him." 

"If man should ever resist evil," said Simeon, "then George should 
feel free to do it now ; but the leaders of our people taught a more 
excellent way; for the wrath of man worketh not the righteousness of 
God; but it goes sorely against the corrupt will of man, and none can 
receive it save they to whom it is given. Let us pray the Lord that we be 
not tempted." 

"And so /do," said Phineas; "but if we are tempted too much — why, 
let them look out, that 's all." 

"It's quite plain thee wasn't born a Friend," said Simeon, smiling. 
" The old nature hath its way in thee pretty strong as yet" 


To tell the truth, Phineas had been a hearty, two-fisted backwoodsman, 
a vigorous hunter, and a dead shot at a buck ; but, having wooed a pretty 
Quakeress, had been moved, by the power of her charms, to join the 
Society in this neighbourhood ; and though he was an honest, sober, and 
efificient member, and nothing particular could be alleged against him, yet 
the more spiritual among them could not but discern an exceeding lack of 
savour in his developments. 

"Friend Phineas will ever have ways of his own," said Rachel 
Halliday, smiling; "but we all think that his heart is in the right 
place, after all." 

"Well," said George, "isn't it best that we hasten our flight?" 

" I got up at four o'clock, and came on with all speed, full two or three 
hours ahead of them, if they start at the time they planned. It isn't safe 
to start till dark, at any rate ; for there are some evil persons in the villages 
ahead that might be disposed to meddle with us, if they saw our waggon, 
and that would delay us more than the waiting ; but in two hours I think 
we may venture. I will go over to Michael Cross, and engage him to 
come behind on his swift nag, and keep a bright look-out on the road, and 
warn us if any company of men come on. Michael keeps a horse that 
can soon get ahead of most other horses ; and he could shoot ahead, and 
let us know, if there were any danger. I am going out now to warn Jim and 
the old woman to be in readiness, and to see about the horses. We have 
a pretty fair start, and stand a good chance to get to the stand before they 
can come up with us. So, have good courage, friend George ; this isn't 
the first ugly scrape that I 've been in with thy people," said Phineas, as 
he closed the door. 

" Phineas is pretty shrewd," said Simeon. " He will do the best that 
can be done for thee, George." 

"All I am sorry for," said George, "is the risk to you." 

" Thee '11 much oblige us, friend George, to say no more about that. 
What we do, we are conscience bound to do ; we can do no other way. 
And now, mother," said he, turning to Rachel, "hurry thy preparations 
for these friends, for we must not send them away fasting." 

And while Rachel and her children were busy making corn-cake, and 
cooking ham and chicken, and hurrying on the etceteras of the evening 
meal, George and his wife sat in their little room, with their arms folded 
about each other, in such talk as husband and wife have when they know 
that a few hours may part them for ever. 

"Eliza," said George, "people that have friends, and houses, and lands, 
and money, and all those things, can^t love as we do, who have nothing 
but each other. Till I knew you, Eliza, no creature ever had loved me, 
but my poor, heartbroken mother and sister. I saw poor Emily that 
morning the trader carried her off. She came to the corner where I was 
lying asleep, and said, ' Poor George, your last friend is going. What will 
become of you, poor boy?' And I got up, and threw my arms round 
her, and cried, and sobbed, and she cried too; and those were the last 
kind words I got for ten long years ; and my heart all withered up, and 
felt as dry as ashes, till I met you. And your loving me — why, it was 
almost like raising one from the dead ! I 've been a new man ever since ! 
And now, Eliza, I '11 give my last drop of blood, but they shall not take 
you from me. Whoever gets you must walk over my dead body." 

" O Lord, have mercy ! " said Eliza, sobbing. " If he will only let us 
get out of this country together, that is all we ask." 


" Is God on their side ? " said George, speaking less to his wife than 
pouring out his own bitter thoughts, "Does he see all they do? Why 
does he let such things happen ? And they tell us that the Bible is on their 
side ; certainly all the power is. They are rich, and healthy, and happy ; 
they are members of Churches, expecting to go to heaven ; and they get 
along so easy in the world, and have it all their own way; and poor, 
honest, faithful Christians — Christians as good or better than they — are 
lying in the very dust under their feet. They buy 'em and sell 'em, 
and make trade of their hearts' blood, and groans, and tears, and God lets 

"Friend George," said Simeon from the kitchen, "listen to this psalm; 
it may do thee good." 

George drew his seat near the door, and Eliza, wiping her tears, came 
forward also to listen, while Simeon read as follows : 

" ' But as for me, my feet were almost gone ; my steps had well-nigh 
slipped. For I was envious of the fooHsh, when I saw the prosperity 
of the wicked. They are not in trouble like other men, neither are 
they plagued like other men. Therefore pride compasseth them as a 
chain ; violence covereth them as a garment. Their eyes stand out with 
fatness; they have more than heart could wish. They are corrupt, 
and speak wickedly concerning oppression ; they speak loftily. Therefore 
his people return, and the waters of a full cup are wrung out of them, and 
they say, " How doth God know, and is there knowledge in the Most 
High ? '" Is not that the way thee feels, George ? " 

" It is so, indeed," said George, " as well as I could have written 
it myself." 

" Then hear," said Simeon. " ' When I thought to know this, it was 
too painful for me, until I went into the sanctuary of God. Then under- 
stood I their end. Surely thou didst set them in slippery places, thou 
castedst them down to destruction. As a dream when one awaketh, 
so, O Lord, when thou awakest, thou shalt despise their image. Never- 
theless, I am continually with thee ; thou hast holden me by my right 
hand. Thou shalt guide me by thy council, and afterwards receive me 
to glory. It is good for me to draw near unto God. I have put my 
trust in the Lord God.' " 

The words of holy trust, breathed by the friendly old man, stole 
like sacred music over the harassed and chafed spirit of George; and, 
after he ceased, he sat with a gentle and subdued expression on his 
fine features. 

" If this world were all, George," said Simeon, " thee might indeed 
ask. Where is the Lord? But it is often those who have least of all 
in this life whom he chooseth for the kingdom. Put thy trust in him, 
and, no matter what befalls thee here, he will make all right hereafter." 

If these words had been spoken by some easy, self-indulgent exhorter, 
from whose mouth they might have come merely as pious and rhetorical 
flourish, proper to be used to people in distress, perhaps they might 
not have had much effect ; but coming from one who daily and calmly 
risked fine and imprisonment for the cause of God and man, they had 
a weight that could not but be felt, and both the poor, desolate fugitives 
found calmness and strength breathing into them from it. 

And now Rachel took Eliza's hand kindly, and led the way to the 
supper-table. As they were sitting down, a light tap sounded at the door, 
and Ruth entered. 


" I just ran in," she said, " with these little stockings for the boy — three 
pair, nice warm woollen ones. It will be so cold, thee knows, in Canada. 
Does thee keep up good courage, Eliza ? " she added, tripping round to 
Eliza's side of the table, and shaking her warmly by the hand, and slipping 
a seed-cake into Harry's hand. " I brought a little parcel of these for him," 
she said, tugging at her pocket to get out the package. " Children, thee 
knows, will always be eating." 

" Oh, thank you ; you are too kind," said Eliza. 

" Come, Ruth, sit down to supper," said Rachel. 

" I couldn't, any way. I left John with the baby, and some biscuits in 
the oven ; and I can't stay a moment, else John will burn up all the 
biscuits, and give the baby all the sugar in the bowl. That 's the way he 
does," said the little Quakeress, laughing. " So, good-bye, Eliza ; good- 
bye, George; the Lord grant thee a safe journey"; and, with a few 
tripping steps, Ruth was out of the apartment. 

A little while after supper, a large covered waggon drew up before 
the door; the night was clear starlight, and Phineas jumped briskly 
down from his seat to arrange his passengers. George walked out of 
the door, with his child on one arm and his wife on the other. His 
step was firm, his face settled and resolute. Rachel and Simeon came 
out after them. 

" You get out a moment," said Phineas to those inside, "and let me fix 
the back of the waggon, there, for the women-folks and the boy." 

" Here are the two buffaloes," said Rachel. " Make the seats as com- 
fortable as may be ; it 's hard riding all night." 

Jim came out first, and carefully assisted out his old mother, who clung 
to his arm and looked anxiously about, as if she expected the pursuer 
every moment. 

" Jim, are your pistols all in order ? " said George, in a low, firm voice. 

" Yes, indeed," said Jim. 

" And you 've no doubt what you shall do if they come ? " 

" I rather think I haven't," said Jim, throwing open his broad chest, 
and taking a deep breath. " Do you think I'll let them get mother again?" 

During this brief colloquy Eliza ,had been taking her leave of her kind 
friend, Rachel, and was handed into the carriage by Simeon, and, creeping 
into the back part with her boy, sat down among the buffalo-skins. The 
old woman was next handed in and seated, and George and Jim placed on 
a rough board seat in front of them, and Phineas mounted in front. 

" Farewell, my friends," said Simeon, from without. 

" God bless you ! " answered all from within. 

And the waggon drove off, rattling and jolting over the frozen road. 

There was no opportunity for conversation, on account of the roughness 
of the way and the noise of the wheels. The vehicle therefore rumbled 
on, through long, dark stretches of woodland, over wide dreary plains, up 
hills and down valleys, and on, on they jogged, hour after hour. The child 
soon fell asleep, and lay heavily in his mother's lap. The poor frightened 
old woman at last forgot her fears; and even Eliza, as the night waned, 
found all her anxieties insufficient to keep her eyes from closing. Phineas 
seemed, on the whole, the briskest of the company, and beguiled his 
long drive with whistling certain very un-Quaker-like songs as he went on. 

But about three o'clock George's ear caught the hasty and decided 
click of a horse's hoof coming behind them at some distance, and jogged 
Phineas by the elbow. Phineas pulled up his horses and listened. 


" That must be Michael," he said, " I think I know the sound of his 
gallop " ; and he rose up and stretched his head anxiously back over the 

A man riding in hot haste was now dimly descried at the top of a 
distant hill, 

" There he is, I do believe ! " said Phineas. George and Jim both 
sprang out of the waggon, before they knew what they were doing, 
AH stood intensely silent, with their faces turned towards the expected 
messenger. On he came. Now he went down into a valley, where they 
could not see him ; but they heard the sharp, hasty tramp rising nearer 
and nearer ; at last they saw him emerge on the top of an eminence, 
within hail, 

" Yes, that 's Michael ! " said Phineas ; and, raising his voice, " Halloa, 
there, Michael ! " 

" Phineas ! is that thee ? " 

" Yes ; what news ? — they coming ? " 

" Right on behind, eight or ten of them, hot with brandy, swearing and 
foaming like so many wolves ! " 

And just as he spoke, a breeze brought the faint sound of galloping 
horsemen towards them, 

"In with you — quick, boys, z«/" said Phineas, "If you must fight, 
wait till I get you a piece ahead," And, with the word, both jumped 
in, and Phineas lashed the horses to a run, the horseman keeping close 
beside them. The waggon rattled, jumped, almost flew, over the frozen 
ground ; but plainer, and still plainer, came the noise of pursuing horse- 
men behind. The women heard it, and, looking anxiously out, saw, 
far in the rear, on the brow of a distant hill, a party of men looming 
up against the red-streaked sky of early dawn. Another hill, and their 
pursuers had evidently caught sight of their waggon, whose white cloth- 
covered top made it conspicuous at some distance, and a loud yell of 
brutal triumph came forward on the wind. Eliza sickened, and strained 
her child closer to her bosom ; the old woman prayed and groaned, and 
George and Jim clenched their pistols with the grasp of despair. The 
pursuers gained on them fast ; the carriage made a sudden turn, and 
brought them near a ledge of a steep, overhanging rock, that rose in 
an isolated ridge or clump in a large lot, which was, all around it, quite 
clear and smooth. This isolated pile, or range of rocks, rose up black 
and heavy against the brightening sky, and seemed to promise shelter 
and concealment. It was a place well known to Phineas, who had been 
familiar with the spot in his hunting-days ; and it was to gain this point he 
had been racing his horses. 

" Now for it ! " said he, suddenly checking his horses, and springing 
from his seat to the ground. " Out with you, in a twinkling, every one, 
and up into these rocks with me. Michael, thee tie thy horse to the 
waggon, and drive ahead to Amariah's, and get him and his boys to 
come back and talk to these fellows." 

In a twinkling they were all out of the carriage. 

" There," said Phineas, catching up Harry, " you, each of you, see to 
the women ; and run, noiv, if you ever did run." 

There needed no exhortation. Quicker than we can say it, the whole 
party were over the fence, making with all speed for the rocks, while 
Michael, throwing himself from his horse, and fastening the bridle to the 
waggon, began driving it rapidly away. 


" Come ahead," said Phineas, as they reached the rocks, and saw, in 
the mingled starlight and dawn, the traces of a rude but plainly marked 
footpath leading up among them ; " this is one of our old hunting-dens. 
Come up ! " 

Phineas went before, springing up the rocks like a goat, with the 
boy in his arms. Jim came second bearing his trembling old mother 
over his shoulder, and George and Eliza brought up the rear. The 
party of horsemen came up to the fence, and, with mingled shouts 
and oaths, were dismounting to prepare to follow them. A few moments' 
scrambling brought them to the top of the ledge ; the path then passed 
between a narrow defile, where only one could walk at a time, till 
suddenly they came to a rift or chasm more than a yard in breadth, 
and beyond which lay a pile of rocks, separate from the rest of the 
ledge, standing full thirty feet high, with its sides steep and perpen- 
dicular as those of a castle. Phineas easily leaped the chasm, and sat 
down the boy on a smooth, flat platform of crisp white moss, that 
covered the top of the rock. 

" Over with you ! " he called ; " spring, now, once, for your lives ! " said 
he, as one after another sprang across. Several fragments of loose stone 
formed a kind of breastwork, which sheltered their position from the 
observation of those below. 

" Well, here we all are," said Phineas, peeping over the stone breastwork 
to watch the assailants, who were coming tumultuously up under the rocks. 
" Let 'em get us if they can. Whoever comes here has to walk single 
file between those two rocks, in fair range of your pistols, boys, d'ye 

" I do see," said George ; " and now, as this matter is ours, let us take 
all the risk, and do all the fighting." 

"Thee's quite welcome to do the fighting, George," said Phineas, 
chewing some checkerberry-leaves as he spoke; "but I may have 
the fun of looking on, I suppose? But see, these fellows are kinder 
debating down there, and looking up, like hens when they are going 
to fly up on to the roost. Hadn't thee better give 'em a word of 
advice, before they come up, just to tell 'em handsomely they'll be 
shot if they do?" 

The party beneath, now more apparent in the light of the dawn, 
consisted of our old acquaintances, Tom Loker and Marks, with two 
constables, and a posse consisting of such rowdies at the last tavern as 
could be engaged by a little brandy to go and help the fun of trapping 
a set of niggers. 

" Well, Tom, yer coons are fa'rly treed," said one. 

" Yes, I see 'em go up right here," said Tom j " and here 's a path. I 'm 
for going right up. They can't jump down in a hurry, and it won't take 
long to ferret 'em out." 

" But, Tom, they might fire at us from behind the rocks," said Marks. 
" That would be ugly, you know." 

" Ugh ! " said Tom, with a sneer. " Always for saving your skin, Marks ! 
No danger ! niggers are too plaguy scared ! " 

" I don't know why I shouldtit save my skin," said Marks. " It 's the 
best I 've got ; and niggers do fight like the devil, sometimes." 

At this moment, George appeared on the top of a rock above them, 
and, speaking in a calm, clear voice, said : 

"Gentlemen, who are you, down there, and what do you want?" 


"We want a party of runaway niggers," said Tom Loker. "One George 
Harris, and Eliza Harris, and their son, and Jim Selden, and an old 
woman. We 've got the officers here, and a warrant to take 'em ; and 
we 're going to have 'em, too. D 'ye hear ? An't you George Harris, that 
belongs to Mr. Harris, of Shelby county, Kentucky ? " 

"I am George Harris. A Mr. Harris of Kentucky did call me his 
property. But now I 'm a free man, standing on God's free soil ; and my 
wife and my child I claim as mine. Jim and his mother are here. We 
have arms to defend ourselves, and we mean to do it. You can come up 
if you like ; but the first one of you that comes within the range of our 
bullets is a dead man, and the next, and the next ; and so on till the last." 

" Oh, come ! come ! " said a short, puffy man, stepping forward, and 
blowing his nose as he did so. " Young man, this an't no kind of talk at 
all for you. You see, we 're officers of justice. We 've got the law on our 
side, and the power, and so forth ; so you 'd better give up peaceably, you 
see ; for you '11 certainly have to give up at last." 

" I know very well that you 've got the law on your side, and the power," 
said George bitterly. " You mean to take my wife to sell in New Orleans, 
and put my boy like a calf in a trader's pen, and send Jim's old mother to 
the brute that whipped and abused her before, because he couldn't abuse 
her son. You want to send Jim and me back to be whipped and tortured, 
and ground down under the heels of them that you call masters ; and your 
laws wi/I bear you out in it — more shame for you and them ! But you 
haven't got us. We don't own your laws ; we don't own j'our country ; we 
stand here as free, under God's sky, as you are; and by the great God 
that made us, we '11 fight for our liberty till we die ! " 

George stood out in fair sight, on the top of the rock, as he made 
his declaration of independence; the glow of dawn gave a flush to his 
swarthy cheek, and bitter indignation and despair gave fire to his dark 
eye; and, as if appealing from man to the justice of God, he raised his 
hand to heaven as he spoke. 

If it had been only a Hungarian youth, now, bravely defending in some 
mountain fastness the retreat of fugitives escaping from Austria into 
America, this would have been sublime heroism ; but as it was a youth of 
African descent, defending the retreat of fugitives through America into 
Canada, of course we are too well instructed and patriotic to see any 
heroism in it ; and if any of our readers do, they must do it on their own 
private responsibility. When despairing Hungarian fugitives make their 
way, against all the search-warrants and authorities of their lawful govern- 
ment, to America, press and political cabinet ring with applause and 
welcome. When despairing African fugitives do the same thing — it is — 
what 2s it? 

Be it as it may, it is certain that the attitude, eye, voice, manner 
of the speaker, for a moment struck the party below to silence. There 
is something in boldness and determination that for a time hushes even 
the rudest nature. Marks was the only one who remained wholly un- 
touched. He was deliberately cocking his pistol, and, in the momentary 
silence that followed George's speech, he fired at him. 

" Ye see, ye get jist as much for him dead as alive in Kentucky," he 
said coolly, as he wiped his pistol on his coat-sleeve. 

George sprang backward — Eliza uttered a shriek — the ball had passed 
close to his hair, had nearly grazed the cheek of his wife, and struck in the 
tree above. 


" It 's nothing, Eliza," said George quickly. 

" Thee 'd better keep out of sight, with thy speechifying," said Phineas ; 
" they 're mean scamps." 

"Now, Jim," said George, "look that your pistols are all right, and 
watch that pass with me. The first man that shows himself I fire at; 
you take the second, and so on. It won't do, you know, to waste two 
shots on one." 

" But what if you don't hit ? " 

" I shall hit," said George coolly. 

" Good ! Now, there 's stuff in that fellow," muttered Phineas between 
his teeth. 

The party below, after Marks had fired, stood, for a moment, rather 

" I think you must have hit some on 'em," said one of the men. " I 
heard a squeal ! " 

"I'm going right up for one," said Tom. "I never was afraid of 
niggers, and I an't going to be now. Who goes after ? " he said, springing 
up the rocks. 

George heard the words distinctly. He drew up his pistol, examined 
it, pointed it towards that point in the defile where the first man would 

One of the most courageous of the party followed Tom, and the way 
being thus made, the whole party began pushing up the rock — the hinder- 
most pushing the front ones faster than they would have gone of themselves. 
On they came, and in a moment the burly form of Tom appeared in sight, 
almost at the verge of the chasm. 

George fired — the shot entered his side; but, though wounded, he 
would not retreat, but, with a yell like that of a mad bull, he was leaping 
right across the chasm into the party. 

"Friend," said Phineas, suddenly stepping to the front, and meeting 
him with a push from his long arms, " thee isn't wanted here." 

Down he fell into the chasm, crackling down among trees, bushes, logs, 
loose stones, till he lay, bruised and groaning, thirty feet below. The fall 
might have killed him, had it not been broken and moderated by his 
clothes catching in the branches of a large tree ; but he came down with 
some force, however — more than was at all agreeable or convenient. 

" Lord, help us ! they are perfect devils ! " said Marks, heading the 
retreat down the rocks with much more of a will than he had joined 
the ascent, while all the party came tumbling precipitately after him — 
the fat constable, in particular, blowing and puffing in a very energetic 

" I say, fellers," said Marks, " you jist go round and pick up Tom, there, 
while I run and get on to my horse, to go back for help — that's you"; and, 
without minding the hootings and jeers of his company, Marks was as 
good as his word, and was soon seen galloping away. 

" Was ever such a sneaking varmint ? " said one of the men. " To 
come on his business, and clear out and leave us this yer way ! " 

" Well, we must pick up that feller," said another. " Cuss me if I much 
care whether he is dead or alive." 

The men, led by the groans of Tom, scrambled and crackled through 
stumps, logs and bushes, to where that hero lay groaning and swearing, 
with alternate vehemence. 

" Ye keep it a-going pretty loud, Tom," said one. " Ye much hurt ! " 


" Don't know. Get me up, can't ye ? Blast that infernal Quaker ! 
If it had not been for him, I 'd a pitched some on 'em down here, to 
see how they liked it." 

With much labour and groaning, the fallen hero was assisted to rise ; 
and, with one holding him up under each shoulder, they got him as far as 
the horses. 

" If you could only get me a mile back to that ar tavern. Give me 
a handkerchief or something, to stuff into this place, and stop this infernal 

George looked over the rocks, and saw them trying to lift the burly form 
of Tom into the saddle. After two or three ineffectual attempts, he reeled 
and fell heavily to the ground. 

" Oh, I hope he isn't killed ! " said Eliza, who, with all the party, stood 
watching the proceeding. 

" Why not ? " said Phineas. " Serves him right." 

" Because after death comes the judgment," said Eliza. 

" Yes," said the old woman, who had been groaning and praying, in the 
Methodist fashion, during all the encounter, "it's an awful case for the 
poor crittur's soul." 

" On my word, they 're leaving him, I do believe," said Phineas. 

It was true ; for, after some appearance of irresolution and consultation, 
the whole party got on their horses and rode away. When they were quite 
out of sight, Phineas began to bestir himself. 

" Well, we must go down and walk a piece," he said. " I told Michael 
to go forward and bring help, and be along back here with the waggon ; 
but we shall have to walk a piece along the road, I reckon, to meet them. 
The Lord grant he be along soon ! It 's early in the day ; there won't be 
much travel afoot yet a while ; we an't much more than two miles from 
our stopping-place. If the road hadn't been so rough last night, we could 
have outrun 'em entirely." 

As the party neared the fence, they discovered in the distance, along the 
road, their own waggon coming back, accompanied by some men on 

" Well, now, there 's Michael, and Stephen, and Amariah," exclaimed 
Phineas joyfully. " Now we are made — as safe as if we 'd got there." 

"Well, do stop, then," said Eliza, "and do something for that poor 
man; he's groaning dreadfully." 

" It would be no more than Christian," said George ; " let 's take him 
up and carry him on." 

" And doctor him up among the Quakers ! " said Phineas ; " pretty well, 
that ! Well, I don't care if we do. Here, let 's have a look at him " ; and 
Phineas, who, in the course of his hunting and backwoods life, had 
acquired some rude experience of surgery, kneeled down by the wounded 
man, and began a careful examination of his condition. 

" Marks," said Tom feebly, " is that you, Marks ? " 

" No ; I reckon 't an't, friend," said Phineas. " Much Marks cares for 
thee, if his own skin 's safe. He 's off, long ago." 

" I believe I 'm done for," said Tom. " The cussed sneaking dog, 
to leave me to die alone ! My poor old mother always told me 't would 
be so." 

" La sakes ! jist hear the poor crittur ! He 's got a mammy, now," said 
the old negress. " I can't help kinder pityin' on him." 

" Softly, softly j don't thee snap and snarl, friend," said Phineas, as Tom 


winced and pushed his hand away, " Thee has no chance, unless I stop 
the bleeding." And Phineas busied himself with making some off-hand 
surgical arrangements with his own pocket-handkerchief, and such as could 
be mustered by the company. 

" You pushed me down there," said Tom faintly. 

" Well, if I hadn't, thee would have pushed us down, thee sees," said 
Phineas, as he stooped to apply his bandage. "There, there — let me fix 
this bandage. We mean well to thee ; we bear no maUce. Thee shall be 
taken to a house where they'll nurse thee first-rate — as well as thy own 
mother could." 

Tom groaned and shut his eyes. In men of his class, vigour and resolu- 
tion are entirely a physical matter, and ooze out with the flowing of the 
blood ; and the gigantic fellow really looked piteous in his helplessness. 

The other party now came up. The seats were taken out of the 
waggon. The buffalo-skins, doubled in fours, were spread all along one 
side, and four men, with great difficulty, lifted the heavy form of Tom 
into it. Before he was got in, he fainted entirely. The old negress, 
in the abundance of her compassion, sat down on the bottom, and 
took his head in her lap. Eliza, George, and Jim bestowed themselves, 
as well as they could, in the remaining space, and the whole party set 

"What do you think of him?" said George, who sat by Phineas in 

"Well, it's only a pretty deep flesh-wound; but then tumbling and 
scratching down that place didn't help him much. It has bled pretty 
freely — pretty much drained him out, courage and all ; but he '11 get over 
it, and maybe learn a thing or two by it." 

"I'm glad to hear you say so," said George. "It would always be 
a heavy thought to me if I 'd caused his death, even in a just cause." 

"Yes," said Phineas, "killing is an ugly operation, any way they'll 
fix it, man or beast. I 've been a great hunter in my day, and I tell thee 
I've seen a buck that was shot down, and a dying, look that way on 
a feller with his eye that reely most made a feller feel wicked for killing on 
him ; and human creatures is a more serious consideration yet, bein', 
as thy wife says, that the judgment comes to 'em after death. So I 
don't know as our people's notions on these matters is too strict; and, 
considerin' how I was raised, I fell in with them pretty considerably." 

" What shall we do with this poor fellow ? " said George. 

" Oh, carry him along to Amariah's. There 's old Grandmam Stephens 
there — Dorcas, they call her — she's most an amazin' nurse. She takes to 
nursing real natural, and an't never better suited than when she gets a sick 
body to tend. We may reckon on turning him over to her for a fortnight 
or so." 

A ride of about an hour more brought the party to a neat farm-house, 
where the weary travellers were received to an abundant breakfast. Tom 
Loker was soon carefully deposited in a much cleaner and softer bed than 
he had ever been in the habit of occupying. His wound was carefully 
dressed and bandaged, and he lay languidly opening and shutting his 
eyes on the white window-curtains, and gently-gliding figures of his sick 
room, like a weary child. And here, for the present, we shall take our 
leave of one party. 



MISS Ophelia's experiences and opinions. 

Our friend Tom, in his own simple musings, often compared his more 
fortunate lot, in the bondage into which he was cast, with that of Joseph 
in Egypt ; and, in fact, as time went on and he developed more and more 
under the eye of his master the strength of the parallel increased. 

St. Clare was indolent and careless of money. Hitherto the providing 
and marketing had been principally done by Adolph, who was, to the full, 
as careless and extravagant as his master; and, between them both, they 
had carried on the dispersing process with great alacrity. Accustomed, 
for many years, to regard his master's property as his own care, Tom saw, 
with an uneasiness he could scarcely repress, the wasteful expenditure 
of the establishment ; and, in the quiet, indirect way which his class often 
acquire, would sometimes make his own suggestions. 

St, Clare at first employed him occasionally ; but, struck with his 
soundness of mind and good business capacity, he confided in him more 
and more, till gradually all the marketing and providing for the family 
were intrusted to him. 

"No, no, Adolph," he said, one day, as Adolph was deprecating the 
passing of power out of his hands ; "let Tom alone. You only under- 
stand what you want — Tom understands cost and come to ; and there 
may be some end to money, by-and-by, if we don't let somebody do 

Trusted to an unlimited extent by a careless master, who handed him a 
bill without looking at it, and pocketed the change without counting it, 
Tom had every facility and temptation to dishonesty; and nothing but 
an impregnable simplicity of nature, strengthened by Christian faith, 
could have kept him from it. But, to that nature, the very unbounded 
trust reposed in him was bond and seal for the most scrupulous accuracy. 

With Adolph the case had been different. Thoughtless and self- 
indulgent, and unrestrained by a master who found it easier to indulge 
than to regulate, he had fallen into an absolute confusion as to vieiim 
and tuum with regard to himself and his master, which sometimes 
troubled even St. Clare. His own good sense taught him that such 
a training of his servants was unjust and dangerous. A sort of chronic 
remorse went with him everywhere, although not strong enough to make 
any decided change in his course; and this very remorse reacted again 
into indulgence. He passed lightly over the most serious faults, because 
he told himself that, if he had done his part, his dependents had not 
fallen into them. 

Tom regarded his gay, airy, handsome young master with an odd 
mixture of fealty, reverence, and fatherly solicitude. That he never 
read the Bible; never went to church; that he jested and made free 
with any and everything that came in the way of his wit ; that he spent 
his Sunday evenings at the opera or theatre ; that he went to wine-parties,, 
and clubs, and suppers, oftener than was at all expedient — were all things 
that Tom could see as plainly as anybody, and on which he based a 
conviction that " mas'r wasn't a Christian " ; a conviction, however, which 
he would have been very slow to express to anyone else, but on which he 


founded many prayers, in his own simple fashion, when he was by himself 
in his little dormitory. Not that Tom had not his own way of speaking 
his mind occasionally, with something of the tact often observable in his 
class ; as, for example, the very day after the Sabbath we have described, 
St. Clare was invited out to a convivial party of choice spirits, and was 
helped home, between one and two o'clock at night, in a condition when 
the physical had decidedly attained the upper hand of the intellectual. 
Tom and Adolph assisted to get him composed for the night, the latter in 
high spirits, evidently regarding the matter as a good joke, and laughing 
heartily at the rusticity of Tom's horror, who really was simple enough to 
lie awake most of the rest of the night, praying for his young master. 

" Well, Tom, what are you waiting for ? " said St. Clare, the next day, as 
he sat in his library, in dressing-gown and slippers. St. Clare had just 
been intrusting Tom with some money, and various commissions. " Isn^t 
all right there, Tom ? " he added, as Tom still stood waiting. 

" I 'm afraid not, mas'r," said Tom, with a grave face. 

St. Clare laid down his paper, and set down his coffee-cup, and looked 
at Tom. 

" Why, Tom, what 's the case ? You look as solemn as a coffin." 

"I feel very bad, mas'r. I allays have thought that mas'r would be 
good to everybody." 

" Well, Tom, haven't I been ? Come, now, what do you want ? 
There 's something you haven't got, I suppose, and this is the preface." 

"Mas'r allays been good to me. I haven't nothing to complain of, on 
that head. But there is one that mas'r isn't good to." 

" Why, Tom, what 's got into you ? Speak out ; what do you mean ? " 

" Last night, between one and two, I thought so. I studied upon the 
matter then. Mas'r isn't good to himself." 

Tom said this with his back to his master, and his hand on the door- 
knob. St. Clare felt his face flush crimson, but he laughed. 

" Oh, that 's all, is it ? " he said gaily. 

" All ! " said Tom, turning suddenly round and falling on his knees, 
" Oh, my dear young mas'r ! I 'm afraid it will be loss of all — all — body 
and soul. The good Book says, ' It biteth like a serpent and stingeth Hke 
an adder,' my dear mas'r ! " 

Tom's voice choked, and the tears ran down his cheeks. 

" You poor, silly fool ! " said St. Clare, with tears in his own eyes. 
" Get up, Tom. I 'm not worth crying over." 

But Tom wouldn't rise, and looked imploring. 

" Well, I won't go to any more of their cursed nonsense, Tom," said 
St. Clare ; " on my honour, I won't. I don't know why I haven't stopped 
long ago. I 've always despised //, and myself for it ; so now, Tom, wipe 
up your eyes, and go about your errands. Come, come," he added, " no 
blessings. I 'm not so wonderfully good, now," he said, as he gently 
pushed Tom to the door, " There, I '11 pledge my honour to you, Tom, 
you don't see me so again," he said ; and Tom went off wiping his eyes 
with great satisfaction. 

" I '11 keep my faith with him, too," said St. Clare, as he closed the 

And St. Clare did so ; for gross sensualism, in any form, was not the 
peculiar temptation of his nature. 

But, all this time, who shall detail the tribulations manifold of our friend 
Miss Ophelia, who had begun the labours of a southern housekeeper ? 


There is all the difference in the world in the servants of southern 
establishments, according to the character and capacity of the mistresses 
who have brought them up. 

South as well as north, there are women who have an extraordinary 
talent for command, and tact in educating. Such are enabled, with 
apparent ease, and without severity, to subject to their will, and bring into 
harmonious and systematic order, the various members of their small 
estate, to regulate their peculiarities, and so balance and compensate the 
deficiencies of one by the excess of another as to produce a harmonious 
and orderly system. 

Such a housekeeper was Mrs. Shelby, whom we have already described, 
and such our readers may remember to have met with. If they are not 
common at the south, it is because they are not common in the world. 
They are to be found there as often as anywhere ; and, when existing, find 
in that peculiar state of society a brilUant opportunity to exhibit their 
domestic talent. 

Such a housekeeper Marie St. Clare was not, nor her mother before her. 
Indolent and childish, unsystematic and improvident, it was not to be 
expected that servants trained under her care should not be so likewise ; 
and she had very justly described to Miss Ophelia the state of confusion 
she would find in the family, though she had not ascribed it to the proper 

The first morning of her regency Miss Ophelia was up at four o'clock, 
and having attended to all the adjustments of her own chamber, as she 
had done ever since she came there, to the great amazement of the 
chambermaid, she prepared for a vigorous onslaught on the cupboards 
and closets of the establishment of which she had the keys. 

The store-room, the linen-presses, the china-closet, the kitchen and 
cellar, that day all went under an awful review. Hidden things of 
darkness were brought to light to an extent that alarmed all the prin- 
cipalities and powers of kitchen and chamber, and caused many won- 
derings and murmurings about " dese yer northern ladies " from the 
domestic cabinet. 

Old Dinah, the head cook, and principal of all rule and authority in 
the kitchen department, was filled with wrath at what she considered an 
invasion of privilege. No feudal baron in Magna Charta times could have 
more thoroughly resented some incursion of the Crown. 

Dinah was a character in her own way, and it would be injustice to her 
memory not to give the reader a little idea of her. She was a native and 
essential cook, as much as Aunt Chloe — cooking being an indigenous 
talent of the African race ; but Chloe was a trained and methodical one, 
who moved in an orderly domestic harness, while Dinah was a self-taught 
genius, and, like geniuses in general, was positive, opinionated, and erratic 
to the last degree. 

Like a certain class of modern philosophers, Dinah perfectly scorned 
logic and reason in every shape, and always took refuge in intuitive 
certainty ; and here she was perfectly impregnable. No possible amount 
of talent, or authority, or explanation, could ever make her believe that 
any other way was better than her own, or that the course she had 
pursued in the smallest matter could be in the least modified. This had 
been a conceded point with her old mistress, Marie's mother ; and " Miss 
Marie," as Dinah always called her young mistress, even after her 
marriage, found it easier to submit than to contend; and so Dinah had 


ruled supreme. This was the easier, in that she was perfect mistress of 
that diplomatic art which unites the utmost subservience of manner with 
the utmost inflexibility as to measure. 

Dinah was mistress of the whole art and mystery of excuse-making in 
all its branches. Indeed, it was an axiom with her that the cook can do 
no wrong; and a cook in a southern kitchen finds abundance of heads 
and shoulders on which to lay off every sin and frailty, so as to maintain 
her own immaculateness entire. If any part of the dinner was a failure, 
there were fifty indisputably good reasons for it ; and it was the fault 
undeniably of fifty other people, whom Dinah berated with unsparing 

But it was very seldom that there was any failure in Dinah's last results. 
Though her mode of doing everything was peculiarly meandering and 
circuitous, and without any sort of calculation as to time and place, 
though her kitchen generally looked as if it had been arranged by a 
hurricane blowing through it, and she had about as many places for 
each cooking utensil as there were days in the year, yet, if one would 
have patience to wait her own good time, up would come her dinner 
in perfect order, and in a style of preparation with which an epicure 
could find no fault. 

It was now the season of incipient preparation for dinner. Dinah, who 
required large intervals of reflection and repose, and was studious of ease 
in all her arrangements, was seated on the kitchen floor, smoking a short, 
stumpy pipe, to which she was much addicted, and which she always 
kindled up as a sort of censer whenever she felt the need of an inspiration 
in her arrangements. It was Dinah's mode of invoking the domestic 

Seated around her were various members of that rising race with which 
a southern household abounds, engaged in shelling peas, peeling potatoes, 
picking pin-feathers out of fowls, and other preparatory arrangements. 
Dinah every once in a while interrupting her meditations to give a poke 
or a rap on the head to some of the young operators with the pudding- 
stick that lay by her side. In fact, Dinah ruled over the woolly heads of 
the younger members with a rod of iron, and seemed to consider them 
born for no earthly purpose but to "save her steps," as she phrased it. 
It was the spirit of the system under which she had grown up, and she 
carried it out to its full extent. 

Miss Ophelia, after passing on her reformatory tour through all the 
other parts of the establishment, now entered the kitchen. Dinah had 
heard from various sources what was going on, and resolved to stand on 
defensive and conservative ground, mentally determined to oppose and 
ignore every new measure without any actual and observable contest. 

The kitchen was a large brick-floored apartment, with a great, old- 
fashioned fireplace stretching along one side of it, an arrangement which 
St. Clare had vainly tried to persuade Dinah to exchange for the con- 
venience of a modern cook-stove. Not she. No Puseyite, or conserva- 
tive of any school, was ever more inflexibly attached to time-honoured 
inconveniences than Dinah. 

When St. Clare had first returned from the north, impressed with the 
system and order of his uncle's kitchen arrangements, he had largely 
provided his own with an array of cupboards, drawers, and various 
apparatus, to induce systematic regulation, under the sanguine illusion 
that it would be of any possible assistance to Dinah in her arrangements. 


He might as well have provided them for a squirrel or a magpie. The 
more drawers and closets there were, the more hiding-holes could Dinah 
make for the accommodation of old rags, hair-combs, old shoes, ribbons, 
cast-off artificial flowers, and other articles of vertu wherein her soul 

When Miss Ophelia entered the kitchen, Dinah did not rise, but 
smoked on in sublime tranquillity, regarding her movements obliquely 
out of the corner of her eye, but apparently intent only on the operations 
around her. 

Miss Ophelia commenced opening a set of drawers. 

" What is this drawer for, Dinah ? " she said. 

" It 's handy for 'most anything, missis," said Dinah. 

So it appeared to be. From the variety it contained. Miss OpheKa 
pulled out first a fine damask tablecloth stained with blood, having 
evidently been used to envelop some raw meat. 

"What's this, Dinah? You don't wrap up meat in your mistress's 
best tablecloths?" 

" O Lor', missis, no ; the towels was all a missin', so I jest did it. I laid 
out to wash that ar, that 's why I put it thar." 

" Shiftless ! " said Miss Ophelia to herself, proceeding to tumble over 
the drawer, where she found a nutmeg-grater and two or three nutmegs, a 
Methodist hymn-book, a couple of soiled Madras handkerchiefs, some 
yarn and knitting-work, a paper of tobacco and a pipe, a few crackers, 
one or two gilded china saucers with some pomade in them, one or two 
thin old shoes, a piece of flannel carefully pinned up enclosing some small 
white onions, several damask table-napkins, some coarse crash towels, 
some twine and darning-needles, and several broken papers, from which 
smidry sweet herbs were sifting into the drawer. 

" Where do you keep your nutmegs, Dinah ? " said Miss Ophelia, with 
the air of one who prayed for patience. 

" 'Most anywhar, missis ; there 's some in that cracked teacup up there, 
and there 's some over in that ar cupboard." 

" Here are some in the grater," said Miss Ophelia, holding them up. 

" Laws, yes ; I put 'em there this morning — I likes to keep my things 
handy," said Dinah, "You, Jake! what are you stopping for? You'll 
cotch it ! Be still there ! " she added, with a dive of her stick at the 

" What 's this ? " said Miss Ophelia, holding up the saucer of pomade. 

"Laws, it's my has grease ; I put it thar to have it handy." 

" Do you use your mistress's best saucers for that ? " 

" Law ! it was 'cause I was driv', and in sich a hurry ; I was g^vine to 
change it this very day." 

" Here are two damask table-napkins." 

" Them table-napkins I put there to get 'em washed out some day." 

" Don't you have some place here on purpose for things to be washed ? '* 

" Well, Mas'r St. Clare got dat ar chest, he said, for dat ; but I likes to 
mix up biscuit and hev my things on it some days, and then it an't handy 
a liftin' up the Hd." 

" Why don't you mix your biscuits on the pastry-table there ? " 

"Law, missis, it gets sot so full of dishes, and one thing and another, 
der an't no room, noways." 

" But you should wash your dishes, and clear them away." 

" Wash my dishes ! " said Dinah, in a high key, as her wrath began to 


rise over her habitual respect of manner : " what does ladies know 'bout 
work, I want to know? When'd mas'r ever get his dinner if I was to 
spend all my time a washin' and puttin' up dishes? Miss Marie never 
telled me so, nohow." 

" Well, here are these onions." 

" Laws, yes ! " said Dinah ; " thar is whar I put 'em, now. I couldn't 
'member. Them 's particular onions I was a savin' for dis here very stew. 
I 'd forgot they was in dat ar old flannel." 

Miss Ophelia lifted out the sifting paper of sweet herbs. 

"I wish missis wouldn't touch dem ar. I likes to keep my things 
where I knows whar to go to 'em," said Dinah, rather decidedly. 

" But you don't want these holes in the papers." 

" Them 's handy for siftin' on 't out," said Dinah. 

" But, you see, it spills all over the drawer." 

" Laws, yes ! if missis will go a-tumblin' things all up so it will. Missis 
has spilt lots dat ar way," said Dinah, coming uneasily to the drawers. 
" If missis only will go upsta'rs till my clarin'-up time comes, I '11 have 
everything right ; but I can't do nothin' when ladies is round a henderin'. 
You, Sam, don't you gib the baby dat ar sugar-bowl ! I '11 crack ye over, 
if you don't mind ! " 

" I 'm going through the kitchen, and going to put everything in order, 
once^ Dinah ; and then I '11 expect you to keep it so." 

" Lor', now ! Miss Phelia, dat ar an't no way for ladies to do. I never 
did see ladies doin' no sich ; my old missis nor Miss Marie never did, and 
I don't see no kinder need on 't " ; and Dinah stalked indignantly about, 
while Miss Ophelia piled and sorted dishes, emptied dozens of scattering 
bowls of sugar into one receptacle, sorted napkins, tablecloths, and towels 
for washing ; washing, wiping, and arranging with her own hands, and with 
a speed and alacrity which perfectly amazed Dinah. 

" Lor', now ! if dat ar de way dem northern ladies do, dey an't ladies 
nohow," she said to some of her satellites, when at a safe hearing distance. 
" I has things as straight as anybody when my clarin'-up time comes ; but 
I don't want ladies round, a henderin', and getting my things all where I 
can't find 'em." 

To do Dinah justice, she had, at regular periods, paroxysms of reforma- 
tion and arrangement, which she called " clarin'-up times," when she would 
begin with great zeal, and turn every drawer and closet wrong side out^vard, 
on to the floor or tables, and make the ordinary confusion sevenfold more 
confounded. Then she would light her pipe and leisurely go over her 
arrangements, looking things over, and discoursing upon them; making 
all the young fry scour most vigorously on the tin things, and keeping up 
for several hours a most energetic state of confusion, which she would 
explain to the satisfaction of all inquirers by the remark that she w-as a 
" clarin'-up." " She couldn't hev things a g^vine on so as they had been, 
and she was gwine to make these yer young ones keep better order " ; for 
Dinah herself somehow indulged the illusion that she, herself, was the 
soul of order, and it was only the young uns, and the everybody else in 
the house, that were the cause of anything that fell short of perfection in 
this respect. When all the tins Avere scoured, and the tables scrubbed 
snowy white, and everything that could offend tucked out of sight in holes 
and corners, Dinah would dress herself up in a smart dress, clean apron, 
and high brilliant Madras turban, and tell all marauding " young uns " to 
keep out of the kitchen, for she was gwine to have things kept nice. 

im— » ' i » i \t \n %t*\\\\ j nmmmtmm''M»»mmmmmv>^^t<'m0i^m 


Indeed, these periodic seasons were often an inconvenience to the whole 
household; for Dinah would contract such an immoderate attachment to 
her scoured tin, as to insist upon it that it shouldn't be used again for any- 
possible purpose, at least till the ardour of the "clarin'-up'' period abated. 

Miss Ophelia, in a few days, thoroughly reformed every department of 
the house to a systematic pattern, but her labours in all departments that 
depended on the co-operation of servants were like those of Sisyphus or 
the Danaides. In despair she one day appealed to St. Clare. 

"There is no such thing as getting anything like system in this family!" 

" To be sure there isn't ! " said St. Clare. 

"Such shiftless management, such waste, such confusion, I never 
saw ! " 

" I daresay you didn't." 

" You would not take it so coolly if you were housekeeper." 

"My dear cousin, you may as well understand, once for all, that we 
masters are divided into two classes, oppressors and oppressed. We who 
are good-natured and hate severity make up our minds to a good deal of 
inconvenience. If we will keep a shambling, loose, untaught set in the 
community for our convenience, why, we must take the consequence- 
Some rare cases I have seen of persons who, by a peculiar tact, cari 
produce order and system without severity; but I'm not one of them; 
and so I made up my mind long ago to let things go just as they do.. 
I will not have the poor devils thrashed and cut to pieces, and they know 
it, and, of course, they know the staff is in their own hands." 

" But to have no time, no place, no order — all going on in this shiftless 
way ! " 

"My dear Vermont, you natives up by the North Pole set an 
extravagant value on time ! What on earth is the use of time to a fellow 
who has twice as much of it as he knows what to do with ? As to 
order and system, where there is nothing to be done but lounge on 
the sofa and read, an hour sooner or later in breakfast or dinner isn't 
of much account. Now, there 's Dinah gets you a capital dinner — soup, 
ragoiit, roast fowl, dessert, ice-creams and all — and she creates it all out of 
chaos and old night, down there in that kitchen. I think it really sublime 
the way she manages. But, Heaven bless us ! if we are to go down there 
and view all the smoking and squatting about, the hurryscurryation of the 
preparatory process, we should never eat more ! My good cousin, absolve 
yourself from that. It 's more than a Catholic penance, and does no more 
good. You '11 only lose your temper and utterly confound Dinah. Let 
her go her own way." 

" But, Augustine, you don't know how I found things." 

" Don't I ? Don't I know that the rolling-pin is under her bed, and the 
nutmeg grater in her pocket with her tobacco — that there are sixty-five 
different sugar-bowls, one in every hole in the house — that she washes 
dishes with a dinner-napkin one day and with the fragment of an old 
petticoat the next ? But the upshot is, she gets up glorious dinners, makes 
superb coffee; and you must judge her as warriors and statesmen are 
judged, by her success" 

" But the waste — the expense ! " 

" Oh, well ! Lock everything you can, and keep the key. Give out by 
driblets, and never inquire for odds and ends — it isn't best." 

" That troubles me, Augustine. I can't help feeling as if these servants - 
were not strictly honest. Are you sure they can be relied on ? " 


Augustine laughed immoderately at the grave and anxious face with 
which Miss Ophelia propounded the question. 

" Oh, cousin, that 's too good ! Honest ! — as if that 's a thing to be 
expected ! Honest ! why, of course they aren't. Why should they be ? 
What upon earth is to make them so ? " 

" Why don't you instruct ? " 

" Instruct ! Oh, fiddlestick ! What instructing do you think I should 
do ? I look like it ! As to Marie, she has spirit enough, to be sure, 
to kill off a whole plantation if I'd let her manage; but she wouldn't 
get the cheatery out of them." 

" Are there no honest ones ? " 

" Well, now and then one, whom Nature makes so impracticably simple, 
truthful, and faithful, that the worst possible influence can't destroy it. 
But, you see, from the mother's breast the coloured child feels and sees that 
there are none but underhand ways open to it. It can get along no other 
way with its parents, its mistress, its young master and missie playfellows. 
Cunning and deception become necessary, inevitable habits. It isn't fair 
to expect anything else of him. He ought not to be punished for it. As 
to honesty, the slave is kept in that dependent, semi-childish state, that 
there is no making him realise the rights of property, or feel that his 
master's goods are not his own if he can get them. For my part, I don't 
see how they can be honest. Such a fellow as Tom here is — is a moral 
miracle ! " 

" And what becomes of their souls ? " said Miss Ophelia. 

"That isn't my affair, as I know of," said St. Clare; "I am only 
dealing in facts of the present life. The fact is, that the whole race 
are pretty generally understood to be turned over to the devil, for our 
benefit, in this world, however it may turn out in another ! " 

" This is perfectly horrible ! " said Miss Ophelia ; " you ought to be 
ashamed of yourselves ! " 

" I don't know as I am. We are in pretty good company, for all that," 
said St. Clare, "as people in the broad road generally are. Look at 
the high and the low, all the world over, and it 's the same story ; the 
lower class used up, body, soul, and spirit, for the good of the upper. It 
is so in England; it is so everywhere; and yet all Christendom stands 
aghast, with virtuous indignation, because we do the thing in a little 
different shape from what they do it." 

" It isn't so in Vermont." 

" Ah, well, in New England, and in the free States, you have the better 
of us, I grant. But there's the bell; so, cousin, let us for a while 
lay aside our sectional prejudices, and come out to dinner." 

As Miss Ophelia was in the kitchen in the latter part of the afternoon, 
some of the sable children called out, " La, sakes ! thar 's Prue a coming, 
grunting along like she allers does." 

A tall, bony, coloured woman now entered the kitchen, bearing on her 
head a basket of rusks and hot rolls. 

" Ho, Prue ! you 've come," said Dinah. 

Prue had a peculiar scowling expression of countenance, and a sullen, 
grumbling voice. 

She set down her basket, squatted herself down, and resting her elbows 
on her knees said — 

"OLord! I wish 't I 's dead!" 

" Why do you wish you were dead ? " said Miss Ophelia. 


" I 'd be out o' my misery," said the woman gruffly, without taking her 
eyes from the floor. 

"What need you getting drunk, then, and cutting up, Prue?" said 
a spruce quadroon chambermaid, dangling, as she spoke, a pair of 
coral ear-drops. 

The woman looked at her with a sour, surly glance. 

"Maybe you'll come to it, one of these yer days. I'd be glad to 
see you, I would ; then you '11 be glad of a drop, hke me, to forget your 

"Come, Prue," said Dinah, "let's look at your rusks. Here's missis 
will pay for them." 

Miss Ophelia took out a couple of dozen. 

" Thar 's some tickets in that ar old cracked jug on the top shelf," 
said Dinah. "You, Jake, climb up and get it down." 

" Tickets ! what are they for ? " said Miss Ophelia. 

" We buy tickets of her mas'r, and she gives us bread for 'em." 

" And they counts my money and tickets, when I gets home, to see it 
I 's got the change ; and if I han't, they half kills me." 

"And serves you right," said Jane, the pert chambermaid, "if you will 
take their money to get drunk on. That 's what she does, missis." 

"And that's what I will do; I can't live no other ways — drink and 
forget my misery." 

" You are very wicked and very foolish," said Miss Ophelia, " to steal 
your master's money to make yourself a brute with." 

" It 's mighty likely, missis ; but I will do it — yes, I will ! O Lord ! I 
wish I 's dead, I do ; I wish I 's dead, and out of my misery ! " and slowly 
and stiffly the old creature rose, and got her basket on her head again ; 
but before she went out, she looked at the quadroon girl, who still stood 
playing with her ear-drops. 

"Ye think that ye 're mighty fine with them ar, a frolickin', and 
a tossin' yer head, and a lookin' down on everybody. Well, never mind — 
you may live to be a poor, old, cut-up crittur, like me. Hope to the Lord 
ye will, I do ! Then see if ye won't drink — drink — drink yerself into 
torment ; and sarve ye right, too — ugh ! " and, with a malignant howl, the 
woman left the room. 

" Disgusting old beast ! " said Adolph, who was getting his master's 
shaving-water. " If I was her master, I 'd cut her up worse than she is." 

" Ye couldn't do that ar, no ways," said Dinah. " Her back 's a fa'r 
sight now — she can't never get a dress together over it." 

" I think such low creatures ought not to be allowed to go round 
to genteel famiHes," said ]\Iiss Jane. "What do you think, Mr. St. Clare?" 
she said, coquettishly tossing her head at Adolph. 

It must be observed that, among other appropriations from his master's 
stock, Adolph was in the habit of adopting his name and address ; and 
that the style under which he moved, among the coloured circles of New 
Orleans, was that of Mr. St. Clare. 

" I 'm certainly of your opinion. Miss Benoir," said Adolph. 

Benoir was the name of Marie St, Clare's family, and Jane was one 
of her servants. 

" Pray, Miss Benoir, may I be allowed to ask if these drops are for the 
ball to-morrow night ? They are certainly bewitching ! " 

" I wonder, now, Mr. St. Clare, what the impudence of you men 
wiU come to ! " said Jane, tossing her pretty head till the ear-drops 


twinkled again. " I shan't dance with you for a whole evening, if you go 
to asking me any more questions." 

" Oh, you couldn't be so cruel, now ! I was just dying to know whether 
you would appear in your pink tarletane," said Adolph. 

" What is it ? " said Rosa, a bright, piquant little quadroon, who came 
skipping downstairs at this moment. 

" Why, Mr. St. Clare 's so impudent ! " 

" On my honour," said Adolph, " I '11 leave it to Miss Rosa, now." 

" I know he 's always a saucy creature," said Rosa, poising herself on 
one of her little feet, and looking maliciously at Adolph. " He 's always 
getting me so angry with him." 

" Oh, ladies, ladies, you will certainly break my heart between you," said 
Adolph. " I shall be found dead in my bed some morning, and you '11 
have it to answer for." 

" Do hear the horrid creature talk ! " said both ladies, laughing im- 

" Come, clar' out, you ! I can't have you cluttering up the kitchen," 
said Dinah, "in my way, foolin' round here." 

" Aunt Dinah 's glum, because she can't go to the ball," said Rosa. 

" Don't want none o' your light-coloured balls," said Dinah ; " cuttin' 
round, makin' b'lieve you 's white folks. Arter all, you 's niggers, much 
as I am." 

" Aunt Dinah greases her wool stiff, every day, to make it lie straight,'' 
said Jane. 

"And it will be wool, after all," said Rosa, maliciously shaking down 
her long, silky curls. 

" Well, in the Lord's sight, an't wool as good as ha'r, any time ? " said 
Dinah. " I 'd like to have missis say which is worth the most — a couple 
such as you, or one like me. Get out wid ye, ye trumpery — I won't have 
ye round ! " 

Here the conversation was interrupted in a twofold manner. St. Clare's 
voice was heard at the head of the stairs, asking Adolph if he meant to 
stay all night with his shaving-water ; and Miss Ophelia, coming out of the 
dining-room, said : 

" Jane and Rosa, what are you wasting your time for, here ? Go in and 
attend to your muslins." 

Our friend Tom, who had been in the kitchen during the conversation 
with the old rusk-woman, had followed her out into the street. He saw 
her go on, giving every once in a while a suppressed groan. At last she 
set her basket down on a doorstep, and began arranging the old, faded 
shawl which covered her shoulders. 

" I '11 carry your basket a piece," said Tom compassionately. 

" Why should ye ? " said the woman. " I don't want no help." 

"You seem to be sick, or in trouble, or somethin'," said Tom. 

" I an't sick," said the woman shortly. 

" I wish," said Tom, looking at her earnestly, " I wish I could persuade 
you to leave off drinking. Don't you know it will be the ruin of ye, body 
and soul ? " 

"I knows I'm gwine to torment," said the woman sullenly. "Ye don't 
need to tell me that ar. I's ugly — I's wicked — I's gwine straight to 
torment. O Lord ! I wish I 's thar ! " 

Tom shuddered at these frightful words, spoken with a sullen im- 
passioned earnestness. 


" O Lord have mercy on ye ! poor crittur. Han't ye never heard of 
Jesus Christ ? " 

" Jesus Christ — who 's he ? " 

" Why, he 's the Lord" said Tom. 

" I think I Ve hearn tell o' the Lord, and the judgment and torment. 
I 've hearn o' that." 

"But didn't anybody ever tell you of the Lord Jesus, that loved us 
■ poor sinners, and died for us ? " 

" Don't know nothin' 'bout that," said the woman ; " nobody han't 
never loved me since my old man died." 

" Where was you raised ? " said Tom. 

"Up in Kentuck. A man kept me to breed chil'en for market, and 
sold 'em as fast as they got big enough ; last of all, he sold me to a 
speculator, and my mas'r got me o' him." 

" What set you into this bad way of drinkin' ? " 

" To get shet o' my misery. I had one child after I come here ; and I 
thought then I 'd have one to raise, 'cause mas'r wasn't a speculator. It 
was de peartest little thing ! and missis she seemed to think a heap on 't, at 
first; it never cried — it was likely and fat. But missis tuck sick, and I tended 
her ; and I tuck the fever, and my milk all left me, and the child it pined 
to skin and bone, and missis wouldn't buy milk for it. She wouldn't 
hear to me, when I telled her I hadn't milk. She said she knowed I 
could feed it on what other folks eat ; and the child kinder pined, and 
cried, and cried, and cried, day and night, and got all gone to skin and 
bones, and missis got sot agin it, and she said t warn't nothin' but cross- 
ness. She wished it was dead, she said ; and she wouldn't let me have it 
o' nights, 'cause, she said, it kept me awake, and made me good for 
nothing. She made me sleep in her room; and I had to put it away 
off in a little kind o' garret, and thar it cried itself to death one night. It 
did ; and I tuck to drinkin', to keep its crying out of my ears ! I did — 
and I will drink ! I will, if I do go to torment for it ! Mas'r says I shall 
go to torment, and I tell him I 've got thar now ! " 

" Oh, ye poor crittur ! " said Tom, " han't nobody never telled ye how 
the Lord Jesus loved ye, and died for ye? Han't they telled ye that 
he '11 help ye, and ye can go to heaven, and have rest at last ? " 

" I looks like gwine to heaven ! " said the woman. " An't thar where 
white folks is gwine ? S'pose they 'd have me thar ? I 'd rather go to 
torment, and get away from mas'r and missis. I had so" she said, as, with 
her usual groan, she got her basket on her head, and walked sullenly away. 

Tom turned and walked sorrowfully back to the house. In the court 
he met little Eva — a crown of tuberoses on her head, and her eyes radiant 
with delight. 

" Oh, Tom ! here you are. I am glad I 've found you. Papa says you 
may get out the ponies, and take me in my little new carriage," she said, 
catching his hand. "But what's the matter, Tom? you look sober." 

"I feel bad. Miss Eva," said Tom sorrowfully. "But I'll get the 
horses for you." 

" But do tell me, Tom, what is the matter. I saw you talking to cross 
old Prue." 

Tom, in simple, earnest phrase, told Eva the woman's history. She 
did not exclaim, or wonder, or weep, as other children do. Her cheeks 
grew pale, and a deep, earnest shadow passed over her eyes. She laid 
both hands on her bosom, and sighed heavily. 



MISS Ophelia's experience and opinions continued. 

" Tom, you needn't get me the horses. I don't want to go," she said. 

"Why not, Miss Kva?" 

" These things sink into my heart, Tom," said Eva \ " they sink into 
my heart," she repeated earnestly. " I don't want to go " ; and she turned 
from Tom, and went into the house. 

A few days after another woman came in old Prue's place, to bring the 
rusks ; Miss Ophelia was in the kitchen. 

" Lor' ! " said Dinah, " what 's got Prue ? " 

" Prue isn't coming any more," said the woman mysteriously. 

" Why not ? " said Dinah. " She an't dead, is she ? " 

"We doesn't exactly know. She's down cellar," said the woman, 
glancing at Miss Ophelia. 

After Miss Ophelia had taken the rusks, Dinah followed the woman to 
the door. 

" What Aas got Prue, anyhow ? " she said. 

The woman seemed desirous, yet reluctant, to speak, and answered in 
a low, mysterious tone. 

" Well, you mustn't tell nobody. Prue, she got drunk ag'in — and they 
had her down cellar — and thar they left her all day; and I hearn 'em 
saying that the ^I'es had got to her — and she^s dead I'''' 

Dinah held up her hands, and, turning, saw close by her side the 
spirit-like form of Evangeline, her large, mystic eyes dilated with horror, 
and every drop of blood driven from her lips and cheeks. 

" Lor' bless us ! Miss Eva 's gwine to faint away ! What got us all to 
let her h'ar such talk ? Her pa '11 be rail mad." 

" I shan't faint, Dinah," said the child firmly; "and why shouldn't I hear 
it ? It an't so much for me to hear it, as for poor Prue to suffer it." 

"Lor' sakes / it isn't for sweet, delicate young ladies like you — these 
yer stories isn't ; it 's enough to kill 'em." 

Eva sighed again, and walked upstairs with a slow and melancholy step. 

Miss Ophelia anxiously inquired the woman's story. Dinah gave a very 
garrulous version of it, to which Tom added the particulars which he had 
drawn from her that morning. 

" An abominable business — perfectly horrible ! " she exclaimed, as she 
entered the room where St. Clare lay reading his paper. 

" Pray, what iniquity has turned up now ? " said he. 

" What now ? why, those folks have whipped Prue to death ! " said 
Miss Ophelia, going, on, with great strength of detail, into the story, and 
enlarging on its most shocking particulars. 

" I thought it would come to that, some time," said St. Clare, going on 
with his paper. 

" Thought so ! — an't you going to do anything about it ? " said Miss 
Ophelia. " Haven't you got any selectmen, or anybody to interfere and 
look after such matters ? " 

"It's commonly supposed that \h& property interest is a sufficient guard 
in these cases. If people choose to ruin their own possessions, I don't 


know what 's to be done. It seems the poor creature was a thief and a 
drunkard; and so there won't be much hope to get up sympathy for her." 

" It is perfectly outrageous — it is horrid, Augustine ! It will certainly 
bring down vengeance upon you." 

" My dear cousin, I didn't do it, and I can't help it ; I would, if I 
could. If low-minded, brutal people will act like themselves, what am 
I to do ? They have absolute control ; they are irresponsible despots. 
There would be no use in interfering ; there is no law that amounts to 
anything practically for such a case. The best we can do is to shut our 
eyes and ears, and let it alone. It 's the only resource left us." 

" How can you shut your eyes and ears ? How can you let such things 

" My dear child, what do you expect ? Here is a whole class — de- 
based, uneducated, indolent, provoking — put, without any sort of terms 
or conditions, entirely into the hands of such people as the majority in 
our world are; people who have neither consideration nor self-control, 
who haven't even an enlightened regard to their own interest — for that 's 
the case with the largest half of mankind. Of course, in a community 
so organized, what can a man of honourable and humane feelings do, but 
shut his eyes all he can, and harden his heart ? I can't buy every poor 
wretch I see. I can't turn knight-errant, and undertake to redress every 
individual case of wrong in such a city as this. The most I can do is to 
try and keep out of the way of it." 

St. Clare's fine countenance was for a moment overcast; he looked 
annoyed, but suddenly calling up a gay smile, he said — 

" Come, cousin, don't stand there looking like one of the Fates ; 
you've only seen a peep through the curtain — a specimen of what is 
going on the world over, in some shape or other. If we are to be prying 
and spying into all the dismals of life, we should have no heart to any- 
thing. 'Tis like looking too closely into the details of Dinah's kitchen"; 
and St. Clare lay back on the sofa and busied himself with his paper. 

Miss Ophelia sat down, and pulled out her knitting work, and sat there 
grim with indignation. vShe knit, and knit, but while she mused the fire 
burned ; at last she broke out — 

" I tell you, Augustine, I can't get over things so, if you can. It 's a 
perfect abomination for j^ou to defend such a system — that's my mind !" 

"What now?" said St. Clare, looking up. "At it again, eh?" 

"I say it's perfectly abominable for you to defend such a system!" 
said Miss Ophelia, with increasing warmth. 

"/ defend it, my dear lady? Who ever said I did defend it?" said St. 

" Of course you defend it — you all do — all you Southerners. What do 
you have slaves for, if you don't?" 

"Are you such a sweet innocent as to suppose that nobody in this 
world ever does what they don't think is right ? Don't you, or didn't you 
ever, do anything that you did not think quite right?" 

"If I do, I repent of it, I hope," said Miss Ophelia, rattling her 
needles with energy. 

" So do I," said St. Clare, peeling his orange ; " I 'm repenting of it all 
the time." 

"What do you keep on doing it for?" 

" Didn't you ever keep on doing wrong after you 'd reoented, my good 


" Well, only when I 've been very much tempted," said Miss Ophelia. 

"Well, I'm very much tempted," said St. Clare; "that's just my 

" But I always resolve I won't, and try to break it off." 

" Well, I have been resolving I won't, off and on, these ten years," said 
St. Clare ; " but I haven't, somehow, got clear. Have you got clear of all 
your sins, cousin?" 

" Cousin Augustine," said Miss Ophelia seriously, and laying down her 
knitting-work, " I suppose I deserve that you should reprove my short- 
comings. I know all you say is true enough, nobody else feels them 
more than I do ; but it does seem to me, after all, there is some difference 
between me and you. It seems to me that I would cut off my right hand 
sooner than keep on from day to day, doing what I thought was wrong. 
But then my conduct is so inconsistent with my professions, I don't 
wonder you reprove me." 

" Oh, now, cousin," said Augustine, sitting down on the floor, and 
laying his head back in her lap, " don't take on so awfully serious ! You 
know what a good-for-nothing saucy boy I always was. I love to poke 
you up — that's all — just to see you get earnest. I do think you are 
desperately, distressingly good ; it tires me to death to think of it." 

"But this is a serious subject, my boy, Auguste," said Miss Ophelia, 
laying her hand on his forehead. 

" Dismally so," said he ; " and I — well, I never want to talk seriously in 
hot weather. What with mosquitos and all, a fellow can't get himself up 
to any very sublime moral flights ; and I believe," said St. Clare, suddenly 
rousing himself up, " there 's a theory now ! I understand now why 
northern nations are always more virtuous than southern ones — I see into 
that whole subject." 

" Oh, Auguste, you are a sad rattlebrain !" 

"Am I? Well, so I am, I suppose, but for once I will be serious, 
now ; but you must hand that basket of oranges — you see you '11 have to 
' stay me with flagons and comfort me with apples 'if I 'm going to make 
this effort. Now," said Augustine, drawing the basket up, " I '11 begin : 
When in the course of human events it becomes necessary for a fellow to 
hold two or three dozen of his fellow-worms in captivity, a decent regard 
to the opinions of society requires " 

" I don't see that you are growing more serious," said Miss Ophelia. 

" Wait — I 'm coming on — you '11 hear. The short of the matter is, 
cousin," said he, his handsome face suddenly settling into an earnest and 
serious expression, " on this abstract question of slavery there can, as I 
think, be but one opinion. Planters who have money to make by it — 
clergymen, who have planters to please — politicians, who want to rule by 
it — may warp and bend language and ethics to a degree that shall astonish 
the world at their ingenuity ; they can press Nature and the Bible, and 
nobody knows what else, into the service ; but, after all, neither they nor 
the world believe it one particle the more. It comes from the devil, 
that 's the short of it ; and, to my mind, it 's a pretty respectable specimen 
of what he can do in his own line." 

Miss Ophelia stopped her knitting, and looked surprised; and St. 
Clare, apparently enjoying her astonishment, went on. 

" You seem to wonder ; but if you will get me fairly at it, I '11 make a 
clean breast of it. This cursed business, accursed of God and man, 
what is it? Strip it of all its ornament, run it down to the root and 


nucleus of the whole, and what is it ? Why, because my brother Quashy 
is ignorant and weak, and I am intelligent and strong — because I know 
how, and can do it — therefore, I may steal all he has, keep it, and give 
him only such and so much as suits my fancy. Whatever is too hard, too 
dirty, too disagreeable for me, I may set Quashy to doing. Because I 
don't like work, Quashy shall work. Because the sun burns me, Quashy 
shall stay in the sun. Quashy shall earn the money, and I will spend it. 
Quashy shall lie down in every puddle, that I may walk over dry-shod. 
Quashy shall do my will, and not his all the days of his mortal life, and 
have such a chance of getting to heaven, at last, as I find convenient. 
This I take to be about what slavery is. I defy anybody on earth to read 
our slave-code, as it stands in our law-books, and make anything else of 
it. Talk of the abuses of slavery ! Humbug ! The thing itself is the 
essence of all abuse ! And the only reason why the land don't sink under 
it, like Sodom and Gomorrah, is because it is used in a way infinitely 
better than it is. For pity's sake, for shame's sake, because we are men 
born of women, and not savage beasts, many of us do not, and dare not 
— we would scorn to use the full power which our savage laws put into 
our hands. And he who goes the furthest and does the worst, only uses 
within limits the power that the law gives him." 

St. Clare had started up, and, as his manner was when excited, was 
walking, with hurried steps up and down the floor. His fine face, classic 
as that of a Greek statue, seemed actually to burn with the fervour of his 
feelings. His large blue eyes flashed, and he gestured with an un- 
conscious eagerness. Miss Opheha had never seen him in this mood 
before, and she sat perfectly silent. 

" I declare to you," said he, suddenly stopping before his cousin — " it 's 
no sort of use to talk or to feel on this subject — but I declare to you, 
there have been times when I have thought, if the whole country would 
sink, and hide all this injustice and misery from the light, I would willingly 
sink with it. When I have been travelling up and down on our boats, 
or about on my collecting-tours, and reflected that every brutal, dis- 
gusting, mean, low-lived fellow I met, was allowed by our laws to become 
absolute despot of as many men, women, and children, as he could cheat, 
steal, or gamble money enough to buy — when I have seen such men in 
actual ownership of helpless children, of young girls and women — I have 
been ready to curse my country, to curse the human race ! " 

"Augustine! Augustine!" said Miss Ophelia, "I'm sure you've said 
enough. I never, in my life, heard anything like this; even at the North." 

"At the North!" said St. Clare, with a sudden change of expression, 
and resuming something of his habitual careless tone. " Pooh ! your 
northern folks are cold-blooded ; you are cool in everything ! You can't 
begin to curse up hill and down as we can when we get fairly at it." 

" Well, but the question is — " said Miss Ophelia. 

" Oh, yes, to be sure the question is — and a deuce of a question it is : — 
How came you in this state of sin and misery ? Well, I shall answer in 
the good old words you used to teach me, Sundays. I came so by 
ordinary generation. My servants were my father's, and what is more, 
my mother's ; and now they are mine, they and their increase, which bids 
fair to be a pretty considerable item. My father, you know, came first 
from New England ; and he was just such another man as your father — a 
regular old Roman ; upright, energetic, noble-minded, with an iron Avill. 
Your father settled down in New England, to rule over rocks and stones. 


and to force an existence out of Nature ; and mine settled in Louisiana to 
rule over men and women, and force an existence out of them. My 
mother," said St. Clare, getting up and walking to a picture at the end of 
the room, and gazing upward with a face fervent with veneration, ^'' she 
was divine ! Don't look at me so ! — you know what I mean ! She 
probably was of mortal birth ; but, as far as ever I could observe, there 
was no trace of any human weakness or error about her ; and everybody 
that lives to remember her, whether bond or free, servant, acquaintance, 
relation, all say the same. Why, cousin, that mother has been all that has 
stood between me and utter unbelief for years. She was a direct embodi- 
ment and personification of the New Testament, a hving fact to be 
accounted for, and to be accounted for in no other way than by its truth. 
Oh, mother! mother!" said St. Clare, clasping his hands in a sort of 
transport; and then, suddenly checking himself, he came back, and 
seating himself on an ottoman, he went on — 

" My brother and I were twins ; and they say, you know, that twins 
ought to resemble each other ; but we were in all points a contrast. He 
had black fiery eyes, coal-black hair, a strong fine Roman profile, and a 
rich brown complexion. I had blue eyes, golden hair, a Greek outline, 
and fair complexion. He was active and observing, I dreamy and 
inactive. He was generous to his friends and equals, but proud, domi- 
nant, overbearing to inferiors, and utterly unmerciful to whatever set itself" 
up against him. Truthful we both were ; he from pride and courage, I 
from a sort of abstract ideality. We loved each other about as boys 
generally do, off and on, and in general ; he was my father's pet, and I 
my mother's. 

" There was a morbid sensitiveness and acuteness of feeling in me on 
all possible subjects, of which he and my father had no kind of under- 
standing, and with which they could have no possible sympathy. But 
mother did ; and so, when I had quarrelled with Alfred, and father looked 
sternly on me, I used to go off to mother's room, and sit by her. I 
remember just how she used to look, with her pale cheeks, her deep, soft, 
serious eyes, her white dress — she always wore white — and I used to think 
of her whenever I read in Revelation about the saints that were arrayed 
in fine linen, clean and white. She had a great deal of genius of one 
sort or another, particularly in music, and she used to sit at her organ, 
playing fine old majestic music of the Catholic church, and singing with a 
voice more like an angel than a mortal woman ; and I would lay my head 
down on her lap, and cry, and dream, and feel — oh, immeasurably ! — 
things that I had no language to say ! 

" In those days, this matter of slavery had never been canvassed as it 
has now ; nobody dreamed of any harm in it. 

" My father was a born aristocrat. I think, in some pre-existent state, he 
must have been in the higher circles of spirits, and brought all his old 
court pride along with him ; for it was ingrain, bred in the bone, though 
he was originally of poor, and not in any way of noble family. My 
brother was begotten in his image. 

" Now, an aristocrat, you know, the world over, has no human sympa- 
thies, beyond a certain line in society. In England the line is in one 
place, in Burmah in another, and in America in another ; but the aristocrat 
of all these countries never goes over it. What would be hardship and 
distress and injustice in his own class, is a cool matter of course in another 
one. My father's dividing line was that of colour. Among his equals^ 


never was a man more just and generous ; but he considered the negro, 
through all possible gradations of colour, as an intermediate link between 
man and animals, and graded all his ideas of justice or generosity on this 
hypothesis. I suppose, to be sure, if anybody had asked him, plump and 
fair, whether they had human immortal souls, he might have hemmed and 
hawed, and said yes. But my father was not a man much troubled with 
spiritualism ; religious sentiment he had none, beyond a veneration for 
God, as decidedly the head of the upper classes. 

"Well, my father worked some five hundred negroes; he was an 
inflexible, driving, punctilious business man ; everything was to move by 
system — to be sustained with unfailing accuracy and precision. Now, if 
you take into account that all this was to be worked out by a set of lazy, 
twaddling, shiftless labourers, who had grown up all their lives in the 
absence of every possible motive to learn how to do anything but ' shirk,' 
as you Vermonters say, and you '11 see that there might naturally be on his 
plantation a great many things that looked horrible and distressing to a 
sensitive child like me. 

" Besides all, he had an overseer — a great, tall, slab-sided, two-fisted, 
renegade son of Vermont (begging your pardon), who had gone through a 
regular apprenticeship in hardness and brutality, and taken his degree to 
be admitted to practice. My mother never could endure him, nor I ; 
but he obtained an entire ascendancy over my father ; and this man was 
the absolute despot of the estate. 

" I was a little fellow then, but I had the same love that I have now for 
all kinds of human things — a kind of passion for the study of humanity, 
come in what shape it would. I was found in the cabins and among the 
field-hands a great deal, and, of course, was a great favourite ; and all sorts 
of complaints and grievances were breathed in my ear, and I told them to 
mother, and we, between us, formed a sort of committee for a redress of 
grievances. We hindered and repressed a great deal of cruelty, and 
congratulated ourselves on doing a vast deal of good, till, as often 
happens, my zeal over-acted. Stubbs complained to my father that he 
couldn't manage the hands, and must resign his position. Father was a 
fond, indulgent husband, but a man that never flinched from anything 
that he thought necessary ; and so he put down his foot, like a rock, 
between us and the field-hands. He told my mother, in language 
perfectly respectful and deferential, but quite explicit, that over the house- 
servants she should be entire mistress, but that with the field-hands he 
could allow no interference. He revered and respected her above all 
living beings ; but he would have said it all the same to the Virgin Mary 
herself, if she had come in the way of his system. 

" I used sometimes to hear my mother reasoning cases \vith him — 
endeavouring to excite his sympathies. He would listen to the most 
pathetic appeals with the most discouraging politeness and equanimity. 
* It all resolves itself into this,' he would say : ' must I part with Stubbs, 
or keep him ? Stubbs is the soul of punctuality, honesty, and efficiency, 
a thorough business hand, and as humane as the general run. We can't 
have perfection ; and if I keep him, I must sustain his administration as 
a whole, even if there are, now and then, things that are exceptional. All 
government includes some necessary harshness. General rules will bear 
hard on particular cases.' This maxim my father seemed to consider a 
settler in most cases of alleged cruelty. After he had said t/iat, he 
commonly drew up his feet on the sofa, like a man that has disposed of 


a. business, and betook himself to a nap or the newspaper, as the case 
might be. 

" The fact is, my father showed the exact sort of talent for a statesman. 
He could have divided Poland as easily as an orange, or trod on Ireland as 
quietly and systematically as any man living. At last my mother gave up 
in despair. It never will be known till the last account, what noble and 
sensitive natures like hers have felt, cast, utterly helpless, into what seems 
to them an abyss of injustice and cruelty, and which seems so to nobody 
about them. It has been an age of long sorrow of such natures, in such 
a hell-begotten sort of world as ours. What remained for her but to train her 
children in her own views and sentiments ? Well, after all you say about 
training, children will grow up substantially what they are by nature, and 
only that. From the cradle Alfred was an aristocrat ; and as he grew up, 
instinctively, all his sympathies and all his reasonings were in that line, 
and all mother's exhortations went to the winds. As to me, they sank 
deep into me. She never contradicted, in form, anything that my father 
said, or seemed directly to differ from him ; but she impressed, burnt into 
my very soul, with all the force of her deep earnest nature, an idea of the 
dignity and worth of the meanest human soul. I have looked in her face 
with solemn awe, when she would point up to the stars in the evening, and 
say to me, ' See there Auguste ! the poorest, meanest soul on our place will 
be living, when all these stars are gone for ever — will live as long as God 
lives ! ' 

" She had some fine old paintings ; one, in particular, of Jesus healing 
a blind man. They were very fine, and used to impress me strongly. 
' See there, Auguste,' she would say ; ' the blind man was a beggar, poor 
and loathsome ; therefore he would not heal him afar off! He called 
him to him, and put his liands on him ! Remember this, my boy.' If I 
had lived to grow up under her care, she might have stimulated me to 
I know not what of enthusiasm. I might have been a saint, reformer, 
martyr — but, alas ! alas ! I went from her when I was only thirteen, and I 
never saw her again ! " 

St. Clare rested his head on his hands, and did not speak for some 
minutes. After a w^hile, he looked up and went on — 

" What poor, mean trash this whole business of human virtue is ! A 
mere matter, for the most part, of latitude and longitude, and geographical 
position, acting with natural temperament. The greater part is nothing 
but an accident ! Your father, for example, settles in Vermont, in a town 
where all are, in fact, free and equal ; becomes a regular church member 
and deacon, and in due time joins an Abolitionist society, and thinks us 
all little better than heathens. Yet he is, for all the world, in constitution 
and habit, a duplicate of my father. I can see it leaking out in fifty 
different ways — ^just that same strong, overbearing, dominant spirit. You 
know very well how impossible it is to persuade some of the folks in your 
village that Squire Sinclare does not feel above them. The fact is, though 
he has fallen on democratic times, and embraced a democratic theory, he 
is to the heart an aristocrat, as much as my father who ruled over five 
or six hundred slaves." 

Miss Ophelia felt rather disposed to cavil at this picture, and was laying 
down her knitting to begin, but St. Clare stopped her. 

" Now, I know every word you are going to say. I do not say they were 
alike, in fact. One fell into a condition where everything acted against 
the natural tendency, and the other where everything acted for it ; and so 


one turned out a pretty wilful, stout, overbearing, old democrat, and the 
other a wilful, stout old despot. If both had owned plantations in 
Louisiana, they would have been as like as two old bullets cast in the same 

" What an undutiful boy you are ! " said Miss Ophelia. 

"I don't mean them any disrespect," said St. Clare. "You know 
reverence is not my forte. But, to go back to my history : 

"When father died, he left the whole property to us twin boys, to be 
divided as we should agree. There does not breathe on God's earth a 
nobler soul, more generous fellow, than Alfred, in all that concerns his 
equals ; and we got on admirably with this property question, without a 
single unbrotherly word or feeling. We undertook to work the plantation 
together ; and Alfred, whose outward life and capabilities had double the 
strength of mine, became an enthusiastic planter, and a wonderfully 
successful one. 

" But two years' trial satisfied me that I could not be a partner in that 
matter. To have a great gang of seven hundred, whom I could not know 
personally, or feel any individual interest in, bought and driven, housed, 
fed, worked like so many horned cattle, strained up to military precision — 
the question of how little of life's commonest enjoyments would keep them 
in working order being a constantly-recurring problem, the tiecessity of 
drivers and overseers, the ever-necessary whip, first, last, and only argument 
— the whole thing was insufferably disgusting and loathsome to me ; and 
when I thought of my mother's estimate of one poor human soul, it 
became even frightful ! 

"It's all nonsense to talk to me about slaves enjoying dXl this ! To this day, 
I have no patience with the unutterable trash that some of your patronising 
Northerners have made up, as in their zeal to apologise for our sins. We 
all know better. Tell me that any man living wants to work all his days, 
from day-dawn till dark, under the constant eye of a master, without the 
power of putting forth one irresponsible volition, on the same dreary, 
monotonous, unchanging toil, and all for two pairs of pantaloons, and a 
pair of shoes a year, with enough food and shelter to keep him in working 
order ! Any man who thinks that human beings can, as a general thing, 
be made about as comfortable that way as any other, I wish he might try 
it. I 'd buy the dog, and work him, with a clear conscience ! " 

" I always have supposed," said Miss Ophelia, " that you, all of you, 
approved of these things, and thought them right — according to Scripture." 

" Humbug ! We are not quite reduced to that yet. Alfred, who is as 
determined a despot as ever walked, does not pretend to this kind of 
defence; no, he stands high and haughty, on that good old respectable 
ground, the right of the strongest ; and he says, and I think quite sensibly, 
that the American planter is 'only doing, in another form, what the English 
aristocracy and capitalists are doing by the lower classes ' ; that is, I take 
it, appropriating them, body and bone, soul and spirit, to their use and 
convenience. He defends both — and I think, at least, consistently. He 
•says that there can be no high civilisation without enslavement of the 
masses, either nominal or real. There must, he says, be a lower class, 
■given up to physical toil, and confined to an animal nature ; and a higher 
one thereby acquires leisure and wealth for a more expanded intelligence 
and improvement, and becomes the directing soul of the lower. So he 
reasons, because, as I said, he is born an aristocrat; so I don't beUeve, 
■because I was bom a democrat." 


"How in the world can the two things be compared?" said Miss 
Ophelia. "The English labourer is not sold, traded, parted irom his 
family, whipped ! " 

" He is as much at the will of his employer as if he were sold to him. 
The slave-owner can whip his refractory slave to death — the capitalist can 
starve him to death. As to family security, it is hard to say which is the 
worst — to have one's children sold, or see them starve to death at home." 

" But it 's no kind of apology for slavery, to prove that it isn't worse 
than some other bad thing." 

" I didn't give it for one ; nay, I '11 say, besides, that ours is the more 
bold and palpable infringement of human rights. Actually buying a man 
up, like a horse — looking at his teeth, cracking his joints, and trying his 
paces, and then paying down for him — shaving speculators, breeders, traders, 
and brokers in human bodies and souls — sets the thing before the eyes of 
the civilised world in a more tangible form, though the thing done be, 
after all, in its nature, the same ; that is, appropriating one set of human 
beings to the use and improvement of another, without any regard to 
their own." 

" I never thought of the matter in this light," said Miss Ophelia, 

" Well, I 've travelled in England some, and I 've looked over a good 
many documents as to the state of their lower classes ; and I really think 
there is no denying Alfred, when he says that his slaves are better off than 
a large class of the population of England. You see, you must not infer, 
from what I have told you, that Alfred is what is called a hard master; for 
he isn't. He is despotic, and unmerciful to insubordination ; he would 
shoot a fellow down with as little remorse as he would shoot a buck, if he 
opposed him. But, in general, he takes a sort of pride in having his slaves 
comfortably fed and accommodated. 

"When I was with him, I insisted that he should do something for their 
instruction ; and, to please me, he did get a chaplain, and used to have 
them catechised every Sunday, though I believe, in his heart, that he 
thought it would do about as much good to set a chaplain over his dogs and 
horses. And the fact is, that a mind stupefied and animalised by every 
bad influence from the hour of birth, spending the whole of every week- 
day in unreflecting toil, cannot be done much with by a few hours on 
Sundays. The teachers of Sunday-schools among the manufacturing 
population of England, and among plantation-hands in our country, could 
perhaps testify to the same result there and here. Yet some striking 
exceptions there are among us, from the fact that the negro is naturally 
more impressible to religious sentiment than the white." 

" Well," said Miss Ophelia, " how came you to give up your plantation 

" Well, we jogged on together some time, till Alfred saw plainly that I 
was no planter. He thought it absurd, after he had reformed, and altered, 
and improved everywhere, to suit my notions, that I still remained un- 
satisfied. The fact was, it was, after all, the thing that I hated — the using 
these men and women, the perpetuation of all this ignorance, brutality,. 
and vice — ^just to make money for me ! 

" Besides, I was always interfering in the details. Being myself one of 
the laziest of mortals, I had altogether too much fellow-feeling for the lazy;, 
and when poor shiftless dogs put stones at the bottom of their cotton- 
baskets, to make them weigh heavier, or filled their sacks with dirt, with 
cotton at the top, it seemed so exactly like what I should do if I were- 


they, I couldn't and wouldn't have them flogged for it. Well, of course, 
there was an end of plantation discipline ; and Alf and I came to about 
the same point that I and my respected father did, years before. So he 
told me that I was a womanish sentimentalist, and would never do for 
business Hfe ; and advised me to take the bank-stock, and the New Orleans- 
family mansion, and go to writing poetry, and let him manage the plantation. 
So we parted, and I came here." 

" But why didn't you free your slaves ? " 

" Well, I wasn't up to that. To hold them as tools for money-making I 
could not ; have them to help spend money, you know, didn't look quite 
so ugly to me. Some of them were old house-servants, to whom I was 
much attached ; and the younger ones were children to the old. All were 
well satisfied to be as they were." He paused, and walked reflectively up 
and down the room. 

" There was," said St. Clare, " a time in my life when I had plans and 
hopes of doing something in this world, more than to float and drift. I 
had vague, indistinct yearnings to be a sort of emancipator — to free my 
native land from this spot and stain. All young men have had such fever- 
fits, I suppose, some time ; but then " 

"Why didn't you?" said Miss Ophelia; "you ought not to put your 
hand to the plough and look back." 

" Oh, well, things didn't go with me as I expected, and I got the despair 
of living that Solomon did. I suppose it was a necessary incident to 
wisdom in us both ; but, somehow or other, instead of being actor and 
regenerator in society, I became a piece of drift-wood, and have been 
floating and eddying about ever since. Alfred scolds me every time we 
meet, and he has the better of me, I grant ; for he really does something. 
His life is a logical result of his opinions, and mine is a contemptible 7ion 

"My dear cousin, can you be satisfied with such a way of spending your 
probation ? " 

" Satisfied ! Was I not just telHng you I despised it ? But, then, to 
come back to this point — we were on this Uberation business. I don't 
think my feelings about slavery are peculiar. I find many men who, in 
their hearts, think of it just as I do. The land groans under it ; and, bad • 
as it is for the slave, it is worse, if anything, for the master. It takes no 
spectacles to see that a great class of vicious, improvident, degraded people, 
among us, are an evil to us, as well as to themselves. The capitahst and 
aristocrat of England cannot feel that as we do, because they do not mingle 
with the class they degrade as we do. They are in our houses ; they are 
the associates of our children, and they form their minds faster than we 
can ; for they are a race that children always will cling to and assimilate 
with. If Eva, now, was not more angel than ordinary, she would be ruined. 
We might as well allow the small-pox to run among them, and think our 
children would not take it, as to let them be uninstructed and vicious, and 
think our children will not be affected by that. Yet our laws positively 
and utterly forbid any efficient general educational system, and they do it 
wisely, too; for, just begin and thoroughly educate one generation, and the 
whole thing would be blown sky high. If we did not give them liberty, 
they would take it," 

"And what do you think will be the end of this?" said Miss OpheUa. 

" I don't know. One thing is certain — that there is a mustering among 
the masses, the world over ; and there is a dies iviZ coming on, sooner or 


later. The same thing is working in Europe, in England, and in this 
country. My mother used to tell me of a millennium that was coming, 
when Christ should reign, and all men should be free and happy. And 
she taught me when I was a boy, to pray, ' Thy kingdom come.' Some- 
times I think all this sighing, and groaning, and stirring among the dry 
bones, foretells what she used to tell me was coming. But who may 
abide the day of His appearing?" 

"Augustine, sometimes I think you are not far from the kingdom," 
said Miss Ophelia, laying down her knitting, and looking anxiously at her 

" Thank you for your good opinion ; but it 's up and down with me — 
up to heaven's gate in theory, down in earth's dust in practice. But 
there 's the tea-bell — do let 's go — and don't say, now, I haven't had one 
•downright serious talk for once in my life." 

At table, Marie alluded to the incident of Prue. "I suppose you'll 
think, cousin," she said, "that we are all barbarians." 

"I think that's a barbarous thing," said Miss Ophelia, "but I don't 
think you are all barbarians." 

"Well, now," said Marie, "I know it's impossible to get along with 
some of these creatures. They are so bad they ought not to live. I 
don't feel a particle of sympathy for such cases. If they'd only behave 
themselves, it would not happen." 

" But, mamma," said Eva, " the poor creature was unhappy ; that 's 
what made her drink." 

" Oh, fiddlestick ! as if that were any excuse ! I 'm unhappy very 
often. I presume," she said pensively, " that I 've had greater trials than 
ever she had. It 's just because they are so bad. There 's some of them 
that you cannot break in by any kind of severity. I remember father had 
a man that was so lazy he would run away just to get rid of work, and lie 
round in the swarnps, stealing and doing all sorts of horrid things. That 
man was caught and whipped, time and again, and it never did him any 
good ; and the last time he crawled off, though he couldn't but just go, 
and died in the swamp. There was no sort of reason for it, for father's 
hands were always treated kindly." 

" I broke a fellow in, once," said St. Clare, " that all the overseers and 
masters had tried their hands on in vain." 

"You!" said Marie; "well, I'd be glad to know \v\\&n you ever did 
anything of the sort." 

"Well, he was a powerful, gigantic fellow — a native-born African; and 
he appeared to have the rude instinct of freedom in him to an uncommon 
degree. He was a regular African lion. They called him Scipio. 
Nobody could do anything with him; and he was sold round from 
overseer to overseer, till at last Alfred bought him, because he thought he 
could manage him. Well, one day he knocked down the overseer, and 
was fairly off into the swamps. I was on a visit to Alf s plantation, for it 
was after we had dissolved partnership. Alfred was greatly exasperated, 
but I told him that it was his own fault, and laid him any wager that I 
could break the man ; and finally it was agreed that, if I caught him, I 
should have him to experiment on. So they mustered out a party of 
some six or seven, with guns and dogs, for the hunt. People, you know, 
can get up just as much enthusiasm in hunting a man as a deer, if it is 
only customary; in fact, I got a little excited myself, though I had only 
^■put in as a sort of mediator, in case he was caught. 


"Well, the dogs bayed and howled, and we rode and scampered, and 
finally we started him. He ran and bounded like a buck, and kept us 
well in the rear for some time; but at last he got caught in an im- 
penetrable thicket of cane; then he turned to bay, and I tell you he 
fought the dogs right gallantly. He dashed them to right and left, and 
actually killed three of them with only his naked fists, when a shot from a 
gun brought him down, and he fell, wounded and bleeding, almost at my 
feet. The poor fellow looked up at me with manhood and despair both 
in his eyes. I kept back the dogs and the party, as they came pressing 
up, and claimed him as my prisoner. It was all I could do to keep them 
from shooting him in the flush of success ; but I persisted in my 
bargain, and Alfred sold him to me. Well, I took him in hand, and in 
one fortnight I had him tamed down as submissive and tractable as heart 
could desire." 

"What in the world did you do to him ?" said Marie. 

" Well, it was quite a simple process. I took him to my own room, had 
a good bed made for him, dressed his wounds, and tended him myself, 
until he got fairly on his feet again. And, in process of time, I had free 
papers made out for him, and told him he might go where he liked." 

"And did he go?" said Miss Ophelia. 

" No. The foolish fellow tore the paper in two, and absolutely refused 
to leave me. I never had a braver, better fellow — trusty and true as steel. 
He embraced Christianity afterwards, and became as gentle as a child. 
He used to oversee my place on the lake, and did it capitally, too. I lost 
him the first cholera season. In fact, he laid down his life for me. For I 
was sick, almost to death ; and when, through the panic, everybody else 
fled, Scipio worked for me like a giant, and actually brought me back into 
life again. But poor fellow ! he was taken right after, and there was no 
saving him. I never felt anybody's loss more." 

Eva had come gradually nearer and nearer to her father, as he told the 
story — her small lips apart, her eyes wide and earnest with absorbing 

As he finished, she suddenly threw her arms around his neck, burst into 
tears, and sobbed convulsively. 

"Eva, dear child! what is the matter?" said St. Clare, as tne child's 
small frame trembled and shook with the violence of her feelings. " This 
child," he added, "ought not to hear any of this kind of thing — she's 

"No, papa, I am not nervous," said Eva, controlling herself suddenly 
with a strength of resolution singular in such a child. " I 'm not nervous, 
but these things sink into my /leart" 

"What do you mean, Eva?" 

" I can't tell you, papa. I think a great many thoughts. Perhaps some 
day I shall tell you." 

" Well, think away, dear — only don't cry and worry your papa," said St. 
Clare. " Look here — see what a beautiful peach I have got for you." 

Eva took it, and smiled, though there was still a nervous twitching 
about the comers of her mouth. 

"Come, look at the gold-fish," said St. Clare, taking her hand and 
stepping on to the verandah. A few moments, and merry laughs were 
heard through the silken curtains, as Eva and St. Clare were pelting each 
other with roses, and chasing each other among the alleys of the court. 


There is danger that our humble friend Tom be neglected amid the 
adventures of the higher born; but if our readers will accompany us up to 
a little loft over the stable, they may, perhaps, learn a little of his affairs. 
It was a decent room, containing a bed, a chair, and a small, rough stand, 
%vhere lay Tom's Bible and hymn-book; and where he sits, at present, 
with his slate before him, intent on something that seems to cost him a 
great deal of anxious thought. 

The fact was, that Tom's home-yearnings had become so strong, that he 
had begged a sheet of writing-paper of Eva; and mustering up all his 
small stock of literary attainment acquired by Mas'r George's instructions, 
he conceived the bold idea of writing a letter ; and he was busy now, on 
his slate, getting out his first draft. Tom was in a good deal of trouble, 
for the forms of some of the letters he had forgotten entirely, and of 
what he did remember he did not know exactly which to use. And while 
he was working, and breathing very hard in his earnestness, Eva alighted, 
like a bird, on the round of his chair behind him, and peeped over his 

" Oh, Uncle Tom ! what funny things you are making there ! " 

" I 'm trying to write to my poor old woman. Miss Eva, and my little 
chil'en," said Tom, drawing the back of his hand over his eyes; "but, 
somehow, I'm feared I shan't make it out." 

" I wish I could help you, Tom ! I 've learnt to write some. Last 
year I could make all the letters, but I 'm afraid I 've forgotten." 

So Eva put her little golden head close to his, and the two commenced 
a grave and anxious discussion, each one equally earnest, and about 
equally ignorant ; and, with a deal of consulting and advising over every 
word, the composition began, as they both felt very sanguine, to look 
quite like writing. 

"Yes, Uncle Tom, it really begins to look beautiful," said Eva, gazing 
delighted on it. " How pleased your wife '11 be, and the poor little 
children ! Oh, it 's a shame you ever had to go away from them ! I 
mean to ask papa to let you go back, some time." 

" Missis said that she would send down money for me, as soon as they 
could get it together," said Tom. " I 'm 'spectin' she will. Young Mas'r 
George, he said he 'd come for me ; and he gave me this yer dollar as a 
sign " ; and Tom drew from under his clothes the precious dollar. 

" Oh, he '11 certainly come, then ! " said Eva. " I 'm so glad ! " 

" And I wanted to send a letter, you know, to let 'em know whar I was, 
and tell poor Chloe that I was well off, 'cause she felt so drefful, poor 
soul ! " 

" I say, Tom ! " said St. Clare's voice, coming in at the door at this 

Tom and Eva both started. 

" What 's here ? " said St. Clare, coming up and looking at the slate. 

" Oh, it's Tom's letter. I'm helping him to write it," said Eva; "isn't 
it nice?" 

" I wouldn't discourage either of you," said St. Clare, " but I rather 
think, Tom, you 'd better get me to write your letter for you. I '11 do it 
when I come home from my ride." 

" It 's very important he should write," said Eva, " because his mistress 
is going to send down money to redeem him, you know, papa; he told me 
they told him so." 

St. Clare thought in his heart that this was probably only one of those 


things which good-natured owners say to their servants, to alleviate their 
horror of being sold, without any intention of fulfilling the expectation 
thus excited. But he did not make any audible comment upon it — only 
ordered Tom to get the horses out for a ride. 

Tom's letter was written in due form for him that evening, and safely 
lodged in the post-office. 

Miss Ophelia still persevered in her labours in the housekeeping line. 
It was universally agreed among all the household from Dinah down to 
the youngest urchin, that Miss Ophelia was decidedly "curis" — a term 
by which a southern servant implies that his or her betters don't exactly 
suit them. 

The higher circle in the family — to wit, Adolph, Jane, and Rosa — 
agreed that she was no lady ; ladies never kept working about as she did ; 
that she had no air at all ; and they were surprised that she should be any 
relation of the St. Clares. Even Marie declared that it was absolutely 
fatiguing to see Cousin Ophelia always so busy. And, in fact, Miss 
Ophelia's industry was so incessant as to lay some foundation for the 
complaint. She sewed and stitched away, from daylight to dark, with 
the energy of one who is pressed on by some immediate urgency; and 
then, when the light faded, and the work was folded away, with one turn 
out came the ever-ready knitting-work, and there she was again, going on 
as briskly as ever It really was a labour to see her. 



One morning, while Miss Ophelia was busy in some of her domestic 
cares, St. Clare's voice was heard calling her at the foot of the stairs. 
" Come down here, cousin ; I 've something to show you." 
" What is it ? " said Miss Ophelia, coming down, with her sewing in her 

" I 've made a purchase for your department — see here," said St. Clare ; 
and, with the word, he pulled along a little negro girl, about eight or nine 
years of age. 

She was one of the blackest of her race ; and her round, shining eyes, 
glittering as glass beads, moved with quick and restless glances over 
everything in the room. Her mouth, half open with astonishment at 
the wonders of the new mas'r's parlour, displayed a white and brilliant 
set of teeth. Her woolly hair was braided in sundry little tails, which 
stuck out in every direction. The expression of the face was an odd 
mixture of shrewdness and cunning, over which was oddly drawn, 
like a kind of veil, an expression of the most doleful gravity and 
solemnity. She was dressed in a single filthy ragged garment, made 
of bagging; and stood with her hands demurely folded before her. 
Altogether, there was something odd and goblin-like about her appear- 
ance — something, as Miss Ophelia afterwards said, "so heathenish," as 
to inspire that good lady with utter dismay; and, turning to St. Clare, 
she said — 

" Augustine, what in the world have you brought that thing here for ? " 
" For you to educate, to be sure, and train in the way she should go. 
I thought she was rather a funny specimen in the Jim Crow Hne. Here, 


Topsy," he added, giving a whistle, as a man would to call the attention 
of a dog, "give us a song, now, and show us some of your dancing." 

The black, glassy eyes glittered with a kind of wicked drollery, and 
the thing struck up, in a clear, shrill voice, an odd negro melody, to 
which she kept time with her hands and feet, spinning round, clapping 
her hands, knocking her knees together, in a wild, fantastic sort of 
time, and producing in her throat all those odd guttural sounds which 
distinguish the native music of her race ; and finally, turning a summerset 
or two, and giving a prolonged closing note, as odd and unearthly as 
that of a steam-whistle, she came suddenly down on the carpet, and 
stood with her hands folded, and a most sanctimonious expression of 
meekness and solemnity over her face, only broken by the cunning glances 
which she shot askance from the corners of her eyes. 

Miss Ophelia stood silent, perfectly paralyzed with amazement. 

St. Clare, like a mischievous fellow as he was, appeared to enjoy her 
astonishment ; and, addressing the child again, said — 

" Topsy, this is your new mistress. I 'm going to give you up to her ; 
see, now, that you behave yourself" 

" Yes, mas'r," said Topsy, with a sanctimonious gravity, her wicked eyes 
twinkling as she spoke. 

" You 're going to be good, Topsy, you understand ? " said St. Clare. 

"Oh, yes, mas'r," said Topsy, with another twinkle, her hands still 
devoutly folded. 

"Now, Augustine, what upon earth is this for?" said Miss Ophelia. 
"Your house is so full of these little plagues now, that a body can't 
set their foot down without treading on 'em. I get up in the morning, 
and find one asleep behind the door, and see one black head poking 
out from under the table, one lying on the door-mat ; and they are 
mopping, and mowing, and grinning between all the railings, and 
tumbling over the kitchen floor ! What on earth did you want to 
bring this one for?" 

"For you to educate — didn't I tell you? You're always preaching 
about educating. I thought I would make you a present of a fresh- 
caught specimen, and let you try your hand on her, and bring her up 
in the way she should go." 

" / don't want her, I 'm sure ; I have more to do with 'em now than I 
want to." 

" That 's you Christians all over ! You '11 get up a society, and get some 
poor missionary to spend all his days among just such heathens. But let 
me see one of you that would take one into your house with you, and take 
the labour of their conversion on yourselves ! No ; when it comes to that, 
they are dirty and disagreeable, and it 's too much care, and so on." 

"Augustine, you know I didn't think of it in that light," said Miss 
Ophelia, evidently softening. " Well it might be a real missionary work," 
said she, looking rather more favourably on the child. 

St. Clare had touched the right string. Miss Ophelia's conscientiousness 
was ever on the alert. " But," she added, " I really didn't see the need 
of buying this one — there are enough now, in your house, to take all my 
time and skill." 

" Well, then, cousin," said St. Clare, drawing her aside, " I ought to 
beg your pardon for my good-for-nothing speeches. You are so good, 
after all, that there 's no sense in them. Why, the fact is, this concern 
belonged to a couple of drunken creatures that keep a low restaurant 


that I have to pass by every day, and I was tired of hearing her screaming, 
and them beating and swearing at her. She looked bright and funny, 
too, as if something might be made of her; so I bought her, and I'll 
give her to you. Try, now, and give her a good orthodox New England 
bringing up, and see what it'll make of her. You know I haven't any 
gift that way, but I 'd like you to try." 

"Well, I'll do what I can," said Miss Ophelia; and she approached 
her new subject very much as a person might be supposed to approach a 
black spider, supposing him to have benevolent designs toward it. 

" She 's dreadfully dirty, and half naked," she said. 

"Well, take her downstairs, and make some of them clean and clothe 
her up." 

Miss Ophelia carried her to the kitchen regions. 

" Don't see what Mas'r St. Clare wants of 'nother nigger ! " said Dinah, 
surveying the new arrival with no friendly air. "Won't have her round 
under my feet, I know ! " 

" Pah ! " said Rosa and Jane, with supreme disgust ; " let her keep out 
of our way ! What in the world mas'r wanted another of these low niggers 
for, I can't see ! " 

"You go 'long ! No more nigger dan you be. Miss Rosa," said Dinah, 
who felt this last remark a reflection on herself. "You seem to tink 
yourself white folks. You an't nerry one, black nor white. I 'd like to 
be one or turrer." 

Miss Ophelia saw that there was nobody in the camp that would under- 
take to oversee the cleansing and dressing of the new arrival ; and so she 
was forced to do it herself, with some very ungracious and reluctant 
assistance from Jane. 

It is not for ears polite to hear the particulars of the first toilet of a 
neglected, abused child. In fact, in this world, multitudes must live 
and die in a state that it would be too great a shock to the nerves of 
their fellow-mortals even to hear described. Miss Ophelia had a good, 
strong, practical deal of resolution; and she went through all the dis- 
gusting details with heroic thoroughness, though, it must be confessed, 
with no very gracious air — for endurance was the utmost to which her 
principles could bring her. When she saw, on the back and shoulders 
of the child, great welts and calloused spots, ineifaceable marks of the 
system under which she had grown up thus far, her heart became pitiful 
within her. 

" See there ! " said Jane, pointing to the marks, " don't that show she 's 
a limb ? We '11 have fine works with her, I reckon. I hate these nigger 
young 'uns ! so disgusting ! I wonder that mas'r would buy her ! " 

The " young 'un " alluded to heard all these comments with the subdued 
and doleful air which seemed habitual to her, only scanning, with a keen 
and furtive glance of her flickering eyes, the ornaments which Jane wore 
in her ears. When arrayed, at last, in a suit of decent and whole clothing, 
her hair cropped short to her head. Miss Ophelia, with some satisfaction, 
said she looked more Christian-like than she did, and, in her own mind, 
began to mature some plans for her instruction. 

Sitting down before her, she began to question her. 

" How old are you, Topsy ? " 

" Dun no, missis," said the image, with a grin that showed all her teeth. 

" Don't know how old you are ? Didn't anybody ever tell you ? Who 
was your mother ? " 



" Never had none ! " said the child, with another grin. 

"Never had any mother? What do you mean? Where were you 

" Never was bom ! " persisted Topsy, with another grin, that looked so 
goblin-like, that, if Miss Ophelia had been at all nervous, she might have 
fancied that she had got hold of some sooty gnome from the land of 
Diablerie ; but Miss Ophelia was not nervous, but plain and business-like, 
and she said, with some sternness — 

"You mustn't answer me in that way, child; I'm not playing with 
you. Tell me where you were born, and who your father and mother 

"Never was bom," reiterated the creature, more emphatically, "never 
had no father, nor mother, nor nothin'. I was raised by a speculator, 
with lots of others. Old Aunt Sue used to take car' on us." 

The child was evidently sincere ; and Jane, breaking into a short laugh, 
said — 

" Laws, missis, there 's heaps of 'em. Speculators buys 'em up cheap, 
when they 's little, and gets 'em raised for market." 

" How long have you lived with your master and mistress ? " 

" Dun no, missis." 

" Is it a year, or more, or less ? " 

" Dun no, missis." 

" Laws, missis, these low niggers — they can't tell ! they don't know any- 
thing about time," said Jane; "they don't know what a year is; they 
don't know their own ages." 

" Have you ever heard anything about God, Topsy ? " 

The child looked bewildered, but grinned as usual. 

" Do you know who made you ? " 

" Nobody as I knows on," said the child, with a short laugh. 

The idea appeared to amuse her considerably ; for her eyes twinkled 
and she added — 

" I 'spect I grow'd. Don't think nobody never made me." 

"Do you know how to sew?" said Miss Ophelia, who thought she 
would turn her enquiries to something more tangible. 

" No, missis." 

"What can you do? — what did you do for your master and mistress?" 

" Fetch water, and wash dishes, and rub knives, and wait on folks." 

" Were they good to you ? " 

" 'Spect they was," said the child, scanning Miss Ophelia cunningly. 

Miss Ophelia rose from this encouraging colloquy; St. Clare was 
leaning over the back of her chair. 

" You find virgin soil there, cousin ; put in your own ideas — you won't 
find many to pull up." 

Miss Ophelia's ideas of education, like all her other ideas, were very set 
and definite, and of the kind that prevailed in New England a century ago, 
and which are still preserved in some very retired and unsophisticated 
parts, where there are no railroads. As nearly as could be expressed, they 
could be comprised in very few words; to teach children to mind when 
they were spoken to ; to teach them the catechism, sewing, and reading ; 
and to whip them if they told lies. And though, of course, in the flood 
of fight that is now poured on education, these are left far away in the 
rear, yet it is an undisputed fact that our grandmothers raised some 
tolerably fair men and women under this regime, as many of us can 


remember and testify. At all events, Miss Ophelia knew of nothing else 
to do, and therefore applied her mind to her heathen with the best 
diligence she could command. 

The child was announced and considered in the family as Miss 
Ophelia's girl; and as she was looked upon with no gracious eye in 
the kitchen, Miss Ophelia resolved to confine her sphere of operation 
and instruction chiefly to her own chamber. With a self-sacrifice which 
some of our readers will appreciate, she resolved, instead of comfortably 
making her own bed, sweeping and dusting her own chamber — which she 
had hitherto done, in utter scorn of all offers of help from the chamber- 
maids of the establishment— to condemn herself to the martyrdom of 
instructing Topsy to perform these operations. Ah, woe the day ! Did 
any of our readers ever do the same, they will appreciate the amount of 
her self-sacrifice. 

Miss Ophelia began with Topsy by taking her into her chamber, the 
first morning, and solemnly commencing a course of instruction in the art 
and mystery of bed-making. 

Behold, then, Topsy, washed and shorn of all the little braided tails 
wherein her heart had delighted, arrayed in a clean gown, with well- 
starched apron, standing reverently before Miss Ophelia, with an ex- 
pression of solemnity well befitting a funeral. 

" Now, Topsy, I 'm going to show you just how my bed is to be 
made. I am very particular about my bed. You must learn exactly 
how to do it." 

"Yes, ma'am," says Topsy, with a deep sigh, and a face of woful 

" Now, Topsy, look here, this is the hem of the sheet — this is the right 
side of the sheet, and this is the wrong : will you remember ? " 

"Yes, ma'am," said Topsy, with another sigh. 

"Well, now, the .under sheet you must bring over the bolster — so 
— and tuck it clear down under the mattress nice and smooth — so ; do 
you see?" 

" Yes, ma'am," said Topsy, with profound attention. 

"But the upper sheet," said Miss Ophelia, "must be brought down 
in this way, and tucked under, firm and smooth, at the foot — so — the 
narrow hem at the foot." 

"Yes, ma'am," said Topsy, as before; but we will add, what Miss 
Ophelia did not see, that, during the time when the good lady's back 
was turned, in the zeal of her manipulations, the young disciple had 
contrived to snatch a pair of gloves and a ribbon, which she had 
adroitly slipped into her sleeves, and stood with her hands dutifully 
folded, as before. 

"Now, Topsy, let's 's,^^ you do this," said Miss Ophelia, pulling off the 
clothes, and seating herself. 

Topsy, with great gravity and adroitness, went through the exercise 
completely to Miss Ophelia's satisfaction : smoothing the sheets, patting 
out every wrinkle, and exhibiting, through the whole process, a gravity 
and seriousness with which her instructress was greatly edified. By an 
unlucky slip, however, a fluttering fragment of the ribbon hung out of 
one of her sleeves, just as she was finishing, and caught Miss Ophelia's 
attention. Instantly she pounced upon it. 

"What's this? You naughty, ^Wcked child — you've been stealiM 
this ! " 


The ribbon was pulled out of Topsy's own sleeve, yet was she not 
in the least disconcerted ; she only looked at it with an air of the most 
surprised and unconscious innocence. 

" Laws ! why, that ar 's Miss Feely's ribbon, an't it ? How could it 
'a got in my sleeve ? " 

"Topsy, you naughty girl, don't you tell me a lie. You stole that 
ribbon ! " 

"Missis, I declar' for't, I didn't; never seed it till dis yer blessed 
minnit ! " 

" Topsy," said Miss Ophelia, " don't you know it 's wicked to tell lies ? " 

" I never tells no lies, Miss Feely," said Topsy, with virtuous gravity ; 
" it 's jist the truth I Ve been a tellin' now, and an't nothin' else." 

" Topsy, I shall have to whip you, if you tell lies so." 

" Laws, missis, if you 's to whip all day, couldn't say no other way," said 
Topsy, beginning to blubber. " I never seed dat ar, it must 'a got caught 
in my sleeve. Miss Feely must have left it on the bed, and it got caught 
in the clothes, and so got in my sleeve." 

Miss Ophelia was so indignant at the barefaced lie, that she caught the 
child and shook her. 

" Don't you tell me that again ! " 

The shake brought the gloves on to the floor from the other sleeve. 

"There, you!" said Miss Ophelia, "will you tell me now you didn't 
steal the ribbon ! " 

Topsy now confessed to the gloves, but still persisted in denying the 

"Now, Topsy," said Miss Ophelia, "if you'll confess all about it, I 
won't whip you this time." 

Thus adjured, Topsy confessed to the ribbon and gloves, with woful 
protestations of penitence. 

" Well, now, tell me. I know you must have taken other things since 
you have been in the house, for I let you run about all day yesterday* 
Now tell me if you took anything, and I shan't whip you." 

" Laws, missis ! I took Miss Eva's red thing she w'ars on her neck." 

" You did, you naughty child ! Well, what else ? " 

" I took Rosa's yer-rings — them red ones." 

" Go bring them to me this minute, both of 'em." 

" Laws, missis, I can't — they 's burnt up ! " 

" Burnt up ? — what a story ! Go get 'em, or I '11 whip you." 

Topsy, with loud protestations, and tears, and groans, declared that she 
could not. " They 's burnt up, they was." 

" What did you burn 'em up for ? " said Miss Ophelia. 

" 'Cause I 's wicked, I is. I 's mighty wicked, anyhow. I can't help it.'' 

Just at that moment Eva came innocently into the room, with the 
identical coral necklace on her neck. 

" Why, Eva, where did you get your necklace ? " said Miss Ophelia. 

" Get it? Why, I 've had it on all day," said Eva. 

" Did you have it on yesterday ? " 

" Yes ; and, what is funny, aunty, I had it on all night. I forgot to 
take it off when I went to bed." 

Miss Ophelia looked perfectly bewildered ; the more so as Rosa at that 
instant came into the room, with a basket of new-ironed linen poised on 
her head, and the coral ear-drops shaking in her ears. 

" I 'm sure I can't tell anything what to do with such a child ! " she said^ 


in despair. " What in the world did you tell me you took those things 
for, Topsy?" 

" Why, missis said I must 'fess ; and I couldn't think of nothin' else to 
'fess," said Topsy, rubbing her eyes. 

"But, of course, I didn't want you to confess things you didn't do," 
said Miss Ophelia ; " that 's telling a lie, just as much as the other." 

" Laws now, is it ? " said Topsy, with an air of innocent wonder. 

" La, there an't any such thing as truth in that limb," said Rosa, looking 
indignantly at Topsy. "If I was Mas'r St. Clare, I'd whip her till the 
blood run, I would ! I 'd let her catch it ! " 

" No, no, Rosa," said Eva, with an air of command, which the child 
could assume at times ; " you mustn't talk so, Rosa. I can't bear to 
hear it." 

" La, sakes ! Miss Eva, you 's so good, you don't know nothing how to 
get along with niggers. There 's no way but cut 'em well up, I tell ye." 

" Rosa," said Eva, " hush ! don't you say another word of that sort." 
And the eye of the child flashed, and her cheek deepened in colour. 

Rosa was cowed in a moment. 

" Miss Eva has got the St. Clare blood in her, that 's plain. She can 
speak for all the world just like her papa," she said, as she passed out of 
the room. 

Eva stood looking at Topsy. 

There stood the two children, representatives of the two extremes of 
society. The fair, high-bred child, with her golden head, her deep eyes, 
her spiritual, noble brow, and prince-like movements ; and her black, 
keen, subtle, cringing, yet acute neighbour. They stood the representa- 
tives of their races. The Saxon, born of ages of cultivation, command, 
education, physical and moral eminence ; the Afric, born of ages of 
oppression, submission, ignorance, toil, and vice ! 

Something, perhaps, of such thoughts struggled through Eva's mind. 
But a child's thoughts are rather dim, undefined instincts ; and in Eva's 
noble nature many such were yearning and working, for which she had no 
power of utterance. When Miss Ophelia expatiated on Topsy's naughty, 
wicked conduct, the child looked perplexed and sorrowful, but said, 
sweetly — 

"Poor Topsy, why need you steal? You're going to be taken good 
care of now. I 'm sure I 'd rather give you anything of mine than have 
you steal it." 

It was the first word of kindness the child had ever heard in her life ; 
and the sweet tone and manner struck strangely on the wild, rude heart, 
and a sparkle of something like a tear shone in the keen, round, glittering 
eye ; but it was followed by a short laugh and habitual grin. No ! the ear 
that has never heard anything but abuse is strangely incredulous of any- 
thing so heavenly as kindness; and Topsy only thought Eva's speech 
something funny and inexplicable — she did not believe it. 

But what was to be done with Topsy ? Miss Ophelia found the case a 
puzzler ; her rules for bringing up didn't seem to apply. She thought she 
would take time to think of it ; and by the way of gaining time, and in 
hopes of some indefinite moral virtues supposed to be inherent in dark 
closets. Miss Ophelia shut Topsy up in one till she had arranged her ideas 
further on the subject. 

" I don't see," said ^Miss Ophelia to St. Clare, " how I 'm going to 
manage that child without whipping her." 


" Well, whip her, then, to your heart's content ; I '11 give you full power 
to do what you like." 

"Children always have to be whipped," said Miss Ophelia; "I never 
heard of bringing them up without." 

" Oh, well, certainly," said St. Clare ; " do as you think best. Only I '11 
make one suggestion : I 've seen this child whipped with a poker, knocked 
down with the shovel or tongs, whichever came handiest ; and seeing that 
she is used to that style of operation, I think your whippings will have to 
be pretty energetic to make much impression." 

" What is to be done with her, then ? " said Ophelia. 

" You have started a serious question," said St. Clare ; " I wish you 'd 
answer it. What is to be done with a human being that can be governed 
only by the lash — that fails — it's a very common state of things down 

" I 'm sure I don't know ; I never saw such a child as this." 

" Such children are very common among us, and such men and women 
too. How are they to be governed ? " said St. Clare. 

" I 'm sure it 's more than I can say," said Miss Ophelia. 

" Or I either," said St. Clare. " The horrid cruelties and outrages that 
once and a while find their way into the papers — such cases as Prue's, 
for example — what do they come from ? In many cases, it is a gradual 
hardening process on both sides — the owner growing more and more 
cruel, as the servant more and more callous. Whipping and abuse are 
like laudanum ; you have to double the dose as the sensibiUties decline. 
I saw this very early when I became an owner ; and I resolved never to 
begin, because I did not know when I should stop \ and I resolved, at 
least, to protect my own moral nature. The consequence is, that my 
servants act like spoiled children ; but I think that better than for us both 
to be brutalised together. You have talked a great deal about our 
responsibilities in educating, cousin. I really M'anted you to try with one 
child, who is a specimen of thousands among us." 

" It is your system makes such children," said Miss Ophelia. 

"I know it; but they are made — they exist — and what is to be done 
with them?" 

"Well, I can't say I thank you for the experiment. But then, as it 
appears to be a duty, I shall persevere, and try, and do the best I can," 
said Miss Ophelia; and Miss Ophelia, after this, did labour with a 
commendable degree of zeal and energy on her new subject. She 
instituted regular hours and employments for her, and undertook to 
teach her to read and to sew. 

In the former art the child was quick enough. She learned her letters 
as if by magic, and was very soon able to read plain reading; but the 
sewing was a more difficult matter. The creature was as lithe as a cat, 
and as active as a monkey, and the confinement of sewing was her 
abomination ; so she broke her needles, threw them slily out of windows, 
or down in the chinks of the walls ; she tangled, broke, or dirtied her 
thread, or, with a sly movement, would throw a spool away altogether. 
Her motions were almost as quick as those of a practised conjurer, and 
her command of her face quite as great ; and though Miss Ophelia could 
not help feeling that so many accidents could not possibly happen in 
succession, yet she could not, without a watchfulness which would leave 
her no time for anything else, detect her. 

Topsy was soon a noted character in the establishment. Her talent for 


every species of drollery, grimace, and mimicry — for dancing, tumbling, 
climbing, singing, whistling, imitating every sound that hit her fancy — 
seemed inexhaustible. In her play hours she invariably had every child 
in the establishment at her heels, open mouthed with admiration and 
wonder — not excepting Miss Eva, who appeared to be fascinated by her 
wild diablerie, as a dove is sometimes charmed by a glittering serpent. 
Miss Ophelia was uneasy that Eva should fancy Topsy's society so much, 
and implored St. Clare to forbid it. 

" Poh ! let the child alone," said St. Clare. " Topsy will do her good." 

" But so depraved a child — are you not afraid she will teach her some 
mischief ? " 

"She can't teach her mischief; she might teach it to some children,, 
but evil rolls off Eva's mind like dew off a cabbage-leaf — not a drop 
sinks in." 

"Don't be too sure," said Miss Ophelia. "I know I'd never let a 
child of mine play with Topsy." 

" Well, your children needn't," said St. Clare, " but mine may ; if Eva 
could have been spoiled, it would have been done years ago." 

Topsy was at first despised and contemned by the upper servants ; they 
soon found reason to alter their opinion. It was very soon discovered 
that whoever cast an indignity on Topsy was sure to meet with some 
inconvenient accident shortly after — either a pair of ear-rings or some 
cherished trinket would be missing, or an article of dress would be 
suddenly found utterly ruined, or the person would stumble accidentally 
into a pail of hot water, or a libation of dirty slop would unaccountably 
deluge them from above when in full gala-dress; and on all these 
occasions, when investigation was made, there was nobody found to 
stand sponsor for the indignity. Topsy was cited, and had up before 
all the domestic judicatories, time and again ; but always sustained her 
examinations with most edifying innocence and gravity of appearance. 
Nobody in the world ever doubted who did the things ; but not a scrap 
of direct evidence could be found to establish the suppositions, and 
Miss Ophelia was too just to feel at liberty to proceed to any lengths 
without it. 

The mischiefs done were always so nicely timed, also, as further to 
shelter the aggressor. Thus, the times for revenge on Rosa and Jane, the 
two chambermaids, were always chosen in those seasons when (as not in- 
frequently happened) they were in disgrace with their mistress, when any 
complaint from them would of course meet with no sympathy. In short, 
Topsy soon made the household understand the propriety of letting her 
alone ; and she was let alone accordingly. 

Topsy was smart and energetic in all manual operations, learning every- 
thing that was taught her with surprising quickness. With a few lessons 
she had learned the proprieties of Miss Ophelia's chamber in a way with 
which even that particular lady could find no fault. Mortal hands could 
not lay spread smoother, adjust pillows more accurately, sweep and dust 
and arrange more perfectly, than Topsy, when she chose — but she didn't 
very often choose. If Miss Ophelia, after three or four days of careful 
and patient supervision, was so sanguine as to suppose that Topsy had at 
last fallen into her way, could do without overlooking, and so go off and 
busy herself about something else, Topsy would hold a perfect carnival of 
confusion for some one or two hours. Instead of making the bed, she 
would amuse herself with pulling off the pillow-cases, butting her woolly 


head among the pillows, till it would sometimes be grotesquely orna- 
mented with feathers sticking out in various directions ; she would climb 
the posts, and hang head downward from the tops ; flourish the sheets 
and spreads all over the apartment ; dress the bolster up in Miss Ophelia's 
night-clothes, and enact various scenic performances with that — singing 
and whistling, and making grimaces at herself in the looking-glass; in 
short, as Miss Ophelia phrased it, " raising Cain " generally. 

On one occasion, Miss Ophelia found Topsy with her very best scarlet 
India Canton crape shawl wound round her head for a turban, going on 
with her rehearsals before the glass in great style — Miss Ophelia having, 
with carelessness most unheard of in her, left the key for once in her 

" Topsy ! " she would say, when at the end of all patience \ " what does 
make you act so ? " 

" Dunno, missis — I spects cause I 's so wicked ! " 

" I don't know anything what I shall do with you, Topsy." 

" Laws, missis, you must whip me ; my old missis allers whipped me. 
I an't used to workin' unless I gets whipped." 

" Why, Topsy, I don't want to whip you. You can do well, if you 've 
a mind to ; what is the reason you won't ? " 

" Laws, missis, I 's used to whippin' ; I 'spects it 's good for me." 

Miss Ophelia tried the recipe, and Topsy invariably made a terrible 
commotion, screaming, groaning, and imploring ; though half an hour 
afterwards, when roosted on some projection of the balcony, and sur- 
rounded by a flock of " young 'uns," she would express the utmost con- 
tempt of the whole affair. 

" Law, Miss Feely whip ! — wouldn't kill a skeeter, her whippin's. 
Oughter see how old mas'r made the flesh fly ; old mas'r know'd how ! " 

Topsy always made great capital of her own sins and enormities, 
evidently considering them as something peculiarly distinguishing. 

" Law, you niggers," she would say to some of her auditors, " does you 
know you's all sinners? Well, you is, everybody is. White folks is 
sinners, too — Miss Feely says so ; but I 'spects niggers is the biggest ones ; 
but Lor' ! ye an't any on ye up to me. I 's so awful wicked, there can't 
nobody do nothin' with me. I used to keep old missis a swarin' at me 
half de time. I 'spects I 's the wickedest crittur in the world " ; and 
Topsy would cut a summerset, and come up brisk and shining on to a 
higher perch, and evidently plume herself on the distinction. 

Miss Ophelia busied herself very earnestly on Sundays, teaching Topsy 
the catechism. Topsy had an uncommon verbal memory, and committed 
with a fluency that greatly encouraged her instructress. 

" What good do you expect it is going to do her ? " said St. Clare. 

"Why, it always has done children good. It's what children always 
have to learn, you know," said Miss Ophelia. 

" Understand it or not ? " said St. Clare. 

" Oh, children never understand it at the time ; but after they are grown 
up it '11 come to t'lem." 

"Mine hasn't come to me yet," said St. Clare, "though I'll bear 
testimony that you put it into me pretty thoroughly when I was a boy." 

"Ah, you were always good at learning, Augustine. I used to have 
great hopes of you," said Miss Ophelia. 

" Well, haven't you now ? " said St. Clare. 

" I wish you were as good as you were when you were a boy, Augustine." 


" So do I, that 's a fact, cousin," said St. Clare. " Well, go ahead and 
catechise Topsy ; maybe you '11 make out something yet." 

Topsy, who had stood like a black statue during this discussion, with 
hands decently folded, now, at a signal from Miss Ophelia, went on : — 

" Our first parents, being left to the freedom of their own will, fell from 
the state wherein they were created." 

Topsy's eyes twinkled, and she looked inquiringly. 

" What is it, Topsy ? " said Miss Ophelia. 

" Please, missis, was dat ar state Kintuck ? " 

" What state, Topsy ? " 

"Dat state dey fell out of, I used to hear mas'r tell how we came 
down from Kintuck. 

St. Clare laughed. 

"You'll have to give her a meaning, or she'll make one," said he. 
*' There seems to be a theory of emigration suggested there." 

" Oh, Augustine, be still," said Miss Ophelia ; " how can I do anything 
if you '11 be laughing ? " 

"Well, I won't disturb the exercises again, on my honour"; and 
St. Clare took his paper into the parlour, and sat down till Topsy had 
finished her recitations. They were all very well, only that now and then 
she would oddly transpose some important words, and persist in the 
mistake, in spite of every effort to the contrary; and St. Clare, after all 
his promises of goodness, took a wicked pleasure in these mistakes, 
calling Topsy to him whenever he had a mind to amuse himself, and 
getting her to repeat the offending passages, in spite of Miss Ophelia's 

" How do you think I can do anything with the child, if you Avill go on 
so, Augustine ? " she would say. 

" Well, it is too bad, I won't again ; but I do like to hear the droll 
little image stumble over those big words ! " 

" But you confirm her in the wrong way." 

"What's the odds? One word is as good as another to her." 

"You wanted me to bring her up right; and you ought to remember 
she is a reasonable creature, and be careful of your influence over her." 

" Oh, dismal ! so I ought ; but^ as Topsy herself says, ' I 's so 
wicked ! ' " 

In very much this way Topsy's training proceeded, for a year or two — 
Miss Ophelia worrying herself, from day to day, with her, as a kind of 
chronic plague, to whose inflictions she became, in time, as accustomed as 
persons sometimes do to the neuralgia or sick-headache. 

St. Clare took the same kind jf amusement in the child that a man 
might in the tricks of a parrot or a pointer. Topsy, whenever her sins 
brought her into disgrace in other quarters, always took refuge behind his 
chair; and St. Clare, in one way or other, would make peace for her. 
From him she got many a stray picayune, which she laid out in nuts and 
candies, and distributed, with careless generosity, to all the children in the 
family; for Topsy, to do her justice, was good-natured and liberal, and 
only spiteful in self-defence. She is fairly introduced into our corps de 
ballet^ and will figure, from time to time, in her turn, with other 




Our readers may not be unwilling to glance back, for a brief interval, at 
Uncle Tom's Cabin, on the Kentucky farm, and see what has been 
transpiring among those whom he had left behind. 

It was late in the summer afternoon, and the doors and windows of the 
large parlour all stood open, to invite any stray breeze that might feel in 
a good humour to enter. Mr. Shelby sat in a large hall opening into the 
room, and running through the whole length of the house to a balcony on 
either end. Leisurely tipped back in one chair, with his heels in another, 
he was enjoying his after-dinner cigar. Mrs. Shelby sat in the door, busy 
about some fine sewing ; she seemed like one who had something on her 
mind, which she was seeking an opportunity to introduce. 

" Do you know," she said, " that Chloe has had a letter from Tom ? " 

" Ah ! has she ? Tom 's got some friend there, it seems. How is the 
old boy?" 

" He has been bought by a very fine family, I should think," said Mrs. 
Shelby, "is kindly treated, and has not much to do." 

" Ah ! well, I 'm glad of it — very glad ! " said Mr. Shelby heartily. 
"Tom, I suppose, will get reconciled to a southern residence — hardly 
want to come up here again." 

" On the contrary, he enquires very anxiously," said Mrs. Shelby, " when 
the money for his redemption is to be raised." 

"I'm sure / don't know," said Mr. Shelby. "Once get business 
running wrong, there does seem to be no end to it. It's like jumping 
from one bog to another, all through a swamp; borrow of one to pay 
another, and then borrow of another to pay one — and these confounded 
notes falling due before a man has time to smoke a cigar and turn 
round — dunning letters and dunning messages — all scamper and hurry- 

"It does seem to me, my dear, that something might be done to 
straighten matters. Suppose we sell off all the horses, and sell one of 
your farms, and pay up square ? " 

" Oh, ridiculous, Emily ! You are the finest woman in Kentucky, but 
still you haven't sense to know that you don't understand business; 
women never do, and never can." 

" But, at least," said Mrs. Shelby, " could you not give me some little 
insight into yours? — a list of all your debts, at least, and of all that is 
owed to you, and let me try and see if I can't help you to economise." 

" Oh, bother ! don't plague me, Emily ! — I can't tell exactly. I know 
somewhere about what things are likely to be; but there's no trimming 
and squaring my affairs, as Chloe trims crust off her pies. You don't 
know anything about business, I tell you." 

And Mr. Shelby, not knowing any other way of enforcing his ideas, 
raised his voice ; a mode of arguing very convenient and convincing, when 
a gentleman is discussing matters of business with his wife. 

Mrs. Shelby ceased talking with something of a sigh. The fact was 
that though, as her husband had stated, she was a woman, she had a clear, 
energetic, practical mind, and a force of character every way superior to 


that of her husband; so that it would not have been so very absurd a 
supposition to have allowed her capable of managing, as Mr. Shelby- 
supposed. Her heart was set upon performing her promise to Tom and 
Aunt Chloe, and she sighed as discouragements thickened around her. 

" Don't you think we might in some way contrive to raise that money ? 
Poor Aunt Chloe ! her heart is so set on it ! " 

" I 'm sorry, if it is. I think I was premature in promising. I 'm not 
sure, now, but it's the best way to tell Chloe, and let her make up her 
mind to it. Tom '11 have another wife in a year or two, and she had 
better take up with somebody else." 

" Mr. Shelby, I have taught my people that their marriages are as sacred 
as ours. I never could think of giving Chloe such advice." 

" It 's a pity, wife, that you have burdened them with a morality above 
their condition and prospects. I always thought so." 

" It 's only the morality of the Bible, Mr. Shelby." 

"Well, well, Emily, I don't pretend to interfere with your religious 
notions, only they seem extremely unfitted for people in that condition." 

" They are indeed," said Mrs. Shelby ; " and that is why, from my soul, 
I hate the whole thing. I tell you, my dear, / cannot absolve myself from 
the promises I made to these helpless creatures. If I can get the money 
no other way, I will take music-scholars; I could get enough, I know, 
and earn the money myself." 

"You wouldn't degrade yourself that way, Emily? I never could 
consent to it." 

" Degrade ! would it degrade me as much as to break my faith with the 
helpless ? No, indeed ! " 

"Well, you are always heroic and transcendental," said Mr. Shelby, 
"but I think you had better think before you undertake such a piece 
of Quixotism." 

Here the conversation was interrupted by the appearance of Aunt 
Chloe, at the end of the verandah. 

" If you please, missis," said she. 

"Well, Chloe, what is it?" said her mistress, rising, and going to the 
end of the balcony. 

" If missis would come and look at dis yer lot o' poetry." 

Chloe had a particular fancy for calling poultry poetry ; an application 
of language in which she always persisted, notwithstanding frequent cor- 
rections and advisings from the young members of the family. 

" La sakes ! " she would say, " I can't see ; one jis good as turry ; poetry 
suthin* good, anyhow " ; and so poetry Chloe continued to call it. 

Mrs. Shelby smiled as she saw a prostrate lot of chickens and ducks, 
over which Chloe stood, with a very grave face. of consideration. 

"I'm a thinkin' whether missis would be a having a chicken pie o* 
dese yer." 

"Really, Aunt Chloe, I don't much care; serve them any way you 

Chloe stood handling them over abstractedly ; it was quite evident that 
the chickens were not what she was thinking of. At last, with the short 
laugh with which her tribe often introduced a doubtful proposal, she 
said — 

" Laws me, missis ! what should mas'r and missis be a troubling their- 
selves 'bout de money, and not a usin' what 's right in der hands ? " and 
Chloe laughed again. 


" I don't understand you, Chloe," said Mrs. Shelby, nothing doubting, 
from her knowledge of Chloe's manner, that she had heard every word of 
the conversation that had passed between her and her husband. 

" Why, laws me, missis ! " said Chloe, laughing again, " other folks 
hires out der niggers and makes money on 'em ! Don't keep such a tribe 
eatin' 'em out of house and home." 

" Well, Chloe, who do you propose that we should hire out ? " 

" Laws ! I an't a proposin' nothin' ; only Sam, he said der was one 
of dese yer perfectioners, dey calls 'em, in Louisville, said he wanted a 
good hand at cake and pastry, and said he give four dollars a week to one, 
he did." 

"Well, Chloe?" 

"Well, laws, I's a thinkin', missis, it's time Sally was put along to 
be doin' something. Sally 's been under my care, now, dis some time, and 
she does 'most as well as me, considerin' ; and if missis would only let me 
go, I would help fetch up de money. I an't afraid to put my cake, nor 
pies nother, 'longside no J>erfectioner's.^' 

" Confectioner's, Chloe." 

" Law sakes, missis ! 't an't no odds ; words is so curi's, can't never get 
^em right ! " 

" But, Chloe, do you want to leave your children ? " 

" Laws, missis ! de boys is big enough to do day's works ; dey does 
well enough; and Sally, she'll take de baby — she's such a peart young 
'un, she won't take no looking arter." 

" Louisville is a good way off." 

" Law sakes ! who 's afeard ? It 's down river — somer near my old 
man, perhaps ? " said Chloe, speaking the last in the tone of a question, 
and looking at Mrs. Shelby. 

" No, Chloe ; it 's many a hundred miles off," said Mrs. Shelby. 

Chloe's countenance fell. 

"Never mind; your going there shall bring you nearer, Chloe. Yes, 
you may go ; and your wages shall every cent of them be laid aside for 
your husband's redemption." 

As when a bright sunbeam turns a dark cloud to silver, so Chloe's dark 
face brightened immediately : it really shone. 

" Laws ! if missis isn't too good ! I was thinking of dat ar very thing ; 
'cause I shouldn't need no clothes, nor shoes, nor nothin'. I could save 
every cent. How many weeks is der in a year, missis ? " 

" Fifty-two," said Mrs. Shelby. 

" Laws ! now, dere is ? and four dollars for each on 'em. Why, how 
much 'd dat ar be ? " 

" Two hundred and eight dollars," said Mrs. Shelby. 

" Why-e ! " said Chloe, with an accent of surprise and delight ; " and 
how long would it take me to work it out, missis ? " 

" Some four or five years, Chloe ; but then you needn't do it all, I shall 
add something to it." 

" I wouldn't hear to missis givin' lessons nor nothin.' Mas'r 's quite 
right in dat ar ; 't wouldn't do no ways. I hope none our family ever be 
brought to dat ar, while I 's got hands." 

" Don't fear, Chloe ; I '11 take care of the honour of the family," said 
Mrs. Shelby, smiling. " But when do you expect to go ? " 

" Well, I warn't 'spectin' nothin' ; only Sam, he 's a gwine to de river 
with some colts, and he said I could go 'long with him ; so I jes' put my 


things together. If missis was willin' I 'd go with Sam to-morrow mornings 
if missis would write my pass, and write me a commendation." 

*' Well, Chloe, I 'U attend to it, if Mr. Shelby has no objections. I must 
speak to him." 

Mrs. Shelby went upstairs, and Aunt Chloe, delighted, went out to her 
cabin, to make her preparation. 

" Law sakes, Mas'r George ! ye didn't know I 's a gwine to Louisville 
to-morrow ! " she said to George, as, entering her cabin, he found her busy 
in sorting over her baby's clothes. "I thought I'd jis' look over Sis's 
things, and get 'em straightened up. But I'm gwine, Mas'r George — 
gwine to have four dollars a week ; and missis is gwine to lay it all up, ta 
buy back my old man ag'in ! " 

" Whew ! " said George, " here 's a stroke of business, to be sure ! How- 
are you going ? " 

" To-morrow, wid Sam. And now, Mas'r George, I knows you '11 jis' sit 
down and write to my old man, and tell him all about it — won't 5'e ? " 

" To be sure ! " said George. " Uncle Tom '11 be right glad to hear 
from us. I '11 go right in the house, for paper and ink ; and then, you 
know. Aunt Chloe, I can tell about the new colts and all." 

" Sartin, sartin, Mas'r George ; you go 'long, and I '11 get ye up a bit o' 
chicken, or some sich : ye won't have many more suppers wid yer poor old 



Life passes, with us all, a day at a time ; so it passed with our friend 
Tom, till two years were gone. Though parted from all his soul held 
dear, and though often yearning for what lay beyond, still was he never 
positively and consciously miserable ; for, so well is the harp of humar> 
feeling strung, that nothing but a crash that breaks every string can wholly 
mar its harmony ; and, on looking back to seasons which in review appear 
to us as those of deprivation and trial, we can remember that each hour^ 
as it glided, brought its diversions and alleviations, so that, though not 
happy wholly, we were not, either, wholly miserable. 

Tom read, in his only literary cabinet, of one who had "learned in 
whatsoever state he was, therewith to be content." It seemed to him 
good and reasonable doctrine, and accorded well with the settled and 
thoughtful habit which he had acquired from the reading of that same book. 

His letter homeward, as we related in the last chapter, was in due time 
answered by Master George, in a good, round, schoolboy hand, that Tom 
said might be read "'most across the room." It contained various re- 
freshing items of home intelligence, with which our reader is fully 
acquainted : stated how Aunt Chloe had been hired out to a confectioner 
in Louisville, where her skill in the pastry line was gaining wonderful sums 
of money, all of which, Tom was informed, was to be laid up to go to 
make up the sum of his redemption-money ; Mose and Pete were thriving, 
and the baby was trotting all about the house, under the care of Sally and 
the family generally. 

Tom's cabin was shut up for the present ; but George expatiated 
brilliantly on ornaments and additions to be made to it when Tom came- 


The rest of this letter gave a list of George's school-studies, each one 
headed by a flourishing capital ; and also told the names of four new colts 
that appeared on the premises since Tom left ; and stated, in the same 
connexion, that father and mother were well. The style of the letter was 
decidedly concise and terse ; but Tom thought it the most wonderful 
specimen of composition that had appeared in modern times. He was 
never tired of looking at it, and even held a council with Eva on the 
expediency of getting it framed, to hang up in his room. Nothing but 
the difficulty of arranging it so that both sides of the page would show at 
once, stood in the way of this undertaking. 

The friendship between Tom and Eva had grown with the child's 
growth. It would be hard to say what place she held in the soft, 
impressible heart of her faithful attendant. He loved her as something 
frail and earthly, yet almost worshipped her as something heavenly and 
divine. He gazed on her as the Italian sailor gazes on his image of the 
child Jesus — with a mixture of reverence and tenderness ; and to humour 
her graceful fancies, and meet those thousand simple wants which invest 
childhood like a many-coloured rainbow, was Tom's chief delight. In the 
market, at morning, his eyes were always on the flower-stalls for rare 
bouquets for her, and the choicest peach or orange was slipped into his 
pocket to give to her when he came back; and the sight that pleased 
him most was her sunny head looking out the gate for his distant 
approach, and her childish question, " Well, Uncle Tom, what have 
you got for me to-day ? " 

Nor was Eva less zealous in kind offices in return. Though a child, 
she was a beautiful reader : a fine musical ear, a quick poetic fancy, and 
an instinctive sympathy with what is grand and noble, made her such a 
reader of the Bible as Tom had never before heard. At first, she read 
to please her humble friend ; but soon her own earnest nature threw out 
its tendrils, and wound itself around the majestic Book ; and Eva loved it, 
because it woke in her strange yearnings, and strong, dim emotions, such 
as impassioned, imaginative children love to feel. 

The parts that pleased her most were the Revelation and the Prophecies 
—parts whose dim and wondrous imagery and fervent language impressed 
her the more, that she questioned vainly of their meaning ; and she and 
her simple friend, the old child and the young one, felt just alike about it. 
All that they knew was, that they spoke of a glory to be revealed — a 
wondrous something yet to come, wherein their soul rejoiced, yet knew 
not why ; and though it be not so in the physical, yet in moral science 
that which cannot be understood is not always profitless. For the soul 
awakes, a trembling stranger, between two dim eternities — the eternal 
past, the eternal future. The light shines only a small space around her ; 
therefore she needs must yearn towards the unknown ; and the voices and 
shadowy movings which come to her from out the cloudy pillar of inspira 
tion, have each one echoes and answers in her own expecting nature. Its 
mystic imageries are so many talismans and gems inscribed with unknown 
hieroglyphics; she folds them in her bosom, and expects to read them 
when she passes beyond the veil. 

At this time in our story, the whole St. Clare establishment is, for the 
time being, removed to their villa on Lake Pontchartrain. The heats of 
summer had driven all who were able to leave the sultry and unhealthy 
-city, to seek the shores of the lake, and its cool sea-breezes. 

St. Clare's villa was an East Indian cottage, surrounded by light 


verandahs of bamboo-work, and opening on all sides into gardens and 
pleasure-grounds. The common sitting-room opened on to a large 
garden, fragrant with every picturesque plant and flower of the tropics, 
where winding paths ran down to the very shores of the lake, whose 
silvery sheet of water lay there, rising and falling in the sunbeams — 
a picture never for an hour the same, yet every hour more beautiful. 

It is now one of those intensely golden sunsets which kindles the 
whole horizon into one blaze of glory, and makes the water another sky. 
The lake lay in rosy or golden streaks, save where white-winged vessels 
glided hither and thither, like so many spirits, and little golden stars 
twinkled through the glow, and looked down at themselves as they 
trembled in the water. 

Tom and Eva were seated on a little mossy seat, in an arbour, at the 
foot of the garden. It was Sunday evening, and Eva's Bible lay open on 
her knee. She read, " And I saw a sea of glass, mingled with fire." 

" Tom," said Eva, suddenly stopping, and pointing to the lake, " there 

"What, Miss Eva?" 

" Don't you see — there ! " said the child, pointing to the glassy water, 
which, as it rose and fell, reflected the golden glow of the sky. " There 's 
a ' sea of glass, mingled with fire.' " 

" True enough, Miss Eva," said Tom ; and Tom sang — 

" Oh, had I the wings of the morning, 
I 'd fly away to Canaan's shore ; 
Bright angels should convey me home, 
To the New Jerusalem." 

" Where do you suppose New Jerusalem is. Uncle Tom ? " said Eva. 

" Oh, up in the clouds. Miss Eva." 

" Then I think I see it," said Eva. " Look in those clouds ! they look 
like great gates of pearl ; and you can see beyond them — far, far off — it 's 
all gold. Tom, sing about ' spirits bright,' " 

Tom sang the words of a well-known Methodist hymn — 

" I see a band of spirits bright, 
That taste the glories there ; 
They all are robed in spotless white, 
And conqueling palms they bear." 

" Uncle Tom, I 've seen them" said Eva. 

Tom had no doubt of it at all ; it did not surprise him in the least. 
If Eva had told him she had been to heaven, he would have thought it 
entirely probable. 

" They come to me sometimes in my sleep, those spirits " ; and Eva's 
eyes grew dreamy, and she hummed, in a low voice — 

" They all are robed in spotless white, 
And conquering palms they bear." 

"Uncle Tom," said Eva, "I'm going there." 

"Where, Miss Eva?" 

The child rose, and pointed her little hand to the sky ; the glow of 
evening lit her golden hair and flushed cheek with a kind of unearthly 
radiance, and her eyes were bent earnestly on the skies. 

"I'm going there" she said, "to the spirits bright, Tom; I'm going, 
before long." 

The faithful old heart felt a sudden thrust ; and Tom thought how often 


he had noticed, within six months, that Eva's little hands had grown 
thinner, and her skin more transparent, and her breath shorter ; and how, 
when she ran or played in the garden, as she once could for hours, she 
became soon so tired and languid. He had heard Miss Ophelia speak 
often of a cough that all her medicaments could not cure ; and even now 
that fervent cheek and little hand were burning with hectic fever ; and yet 
the thought that Eva's words suggested had never come to him till now. 

Has there ever been a child like Eva ? Yes, there have been ; but their 
names are always on grave-stones, and their sweet smiles, their heavenly 
eyes, their singular words and ways, are among the buried treasures of 
yearning hearts. In how many families do you hear the legend that all 
the goodness and graces of the living are nothing to the peculiar charms 
of one who is not! It is as if Heaven had an especial band of angels, 
whose office it was to sojourn for a season here, and endear to them the 
wayward human heart, that they might bear it upward with them in their 
homeward flight. When you see that deep spiritual light in the eye — 
when the little soul reveals itself in words sweeter and wiser than the 
ordinary words of children — hope not to retain that child; for the seal 
of Heaven is on it, and the light of immortality looks out from its eyes. 

Even so, beloved Eva ! fair star of thy dwelling ! Thou art passing 
away ; but they that love thee dearest know it not. 

The colloquy between Tom and Eva was interrupted by a hasty call 
from Miss Ophelia. 

"Eva — Eva! — why, child, the dew is falling; you mustn't be out 
there ! " 

Eva and Tom hastened in. 

Miss Ophelia was old and skilled in the tactics of nursing. She was 
from New England, and knew well the first guileful footsteps of that soft, 
insidious disease, which sweeps away so many of the fairest and loveliest, 
and, beft)re one fibre of life seems broken, seals them irrevocably for 

She had noted the slight, dry cough, the daily brightening cheek; nor 
could the lustre of the eye and the airy buoyancy born of fever deceive 

She tried to communicate her fears to St. Clare; but he threw back 
her suggestions with a restless petulance, unlike his usual careless good- 

" Don't be croaking, cousin — I hate it ! " he would say ; " don't you see 
that the child is only growing ? Children always lose strength when they 
grow fast." 

" But she has that cough ! " 

" Oh, nonsense of that cough — it is not anything ! She has taken a 
little cold, perhaps." 

"Well, that was just the way Eliza Jane was taken, and Ellen and 
Maria Sanders." 

" Oh, stop these hobgoblin nurse-legends ! You old hands get so wise, 
that a child cannot cough or sneeze but you see desperation and ruin at 
hand. Only take care of the child, keep her from the night air, and don't 
let her play too hard, and she '11 do well enough." 

So St. Clare said ; but he grew nervous and restless. He watched Eva 
feverishly day by day, as might be told by the frequency with which he 
repeated over that " the child was quite well " — that there wasn't anything 
in that cough — it was only some little stomach affection, such as children 


often had. But he kept by her more than before, took her oftener to ride 
with him, brought home every few days some recipe or strengthening 
mixture — " not," he said, " that the child needed it, but then it would not 
do her any harm." 

If it must be told, the thing that struck a deeper pang to his heart than 
anything else was the daily-increasing maturity of the child's mind and 
feelings. While still retaining all a child's fanciful graces, yet she often 
dropped, unconsciously, words of such a reach of thought, and strange 
unworldly wisdom, that they seemed to be an inspiration. At such times, 
St. Clare would feel a sudden thrill, and clasp her in his arms, as if that 
fond clasp could save her ; and his heart rose up with wild determination 
to keep her, never to let her go. 

The child's whole heart and soul seemed absorbed in works of love 
and kindness. Impulsively generous she had always been ; but there was 
a touching and womanly thoughtfulness about her now that every one 
noticed. She still loved to play with Topsy and the various coloured 
children ; but she now seemed rather a spectator than an actor of their 
plays, and she would sit for half an hour at a time, laughing at the odd 
tricks of Topsy — and then a shadow would seem to pass across her face, 
her eyes grew misty, and her thoughts were afar. 

" Mamma," she said suddenly to her mother one day, " why don't we 
teach our servants to read ? " 

" What a question, child ! People never do." 

" Why don't they ? " said Eva. 

"Because it is no use for them to read. It don't help them to work 
any better, and they are not made for anything else." 

" But they ought to read the Bible, mamma, to learn God's will." 

"Oh, they can get that read to them all they need." 

" It seems to me, mamma, the Bible is for every one to read themselves. 
They need it a great many times when there is nobody to read it." 

" Eva, you are an odd child," said her mother. 

" Miss Ophelia has taught Topsy to read," continued Eva. 

" Yes, and you see how much good it does. Topsy is the worst creature 
I ever saw ! " 

'* Here 's poor Mammy ! " said Eva. " She loves the Bible so much, 
and wishes so she could read ! And what will she do when I can't read 
to her?" 

Marie was busy, turning over the contents of a drawer, as she an- 
swered — 

"Well, of course, by and by, Eva, you will have other things to think 
of, besides reading the Bible round to servants. Not but that is very 
proper ; I 've done it myself, when I had health. But when you come to 
be dressing and going into company, you won't have time. See here ! " 
she added, "these jewels I'm going to give you when you come out. I 
wore them to my first ball. I can tell you, Eva, I made a sensation." 

Eva took the jewel-case, and lifted from it a diamond necklace. Her 
large, thoughtful eyes rested on them, but her thoughts were elsewhere. 

" How sober you look, child ! " said Marie. 

"Are these worth a great deal of money, mamma?" 

"To be sure they are. Father sent to France for them. They are 
worth a small fortune." 

" I wish I had them," said Eva, " to do what I pleased with I " 

" What would you do with them ? " 


"I'd sell them, and buy a place in the free states, and take all our 
people there, and hire teachers, to teach them to read and write." 

Eva was cut short by her mother's laughing. 

" Set up a boarding-school ! Wouldn't you teach them to play on the 
piano, and paint on velvet ? " 

" I 'd teach them to read their own Bible, and write their own letters, 
and read letters that are written to them," said Eva steadily. " I know, 
mamma, it does come very hard on them, that they can't do these things. 
Tom feels it. Mammy does, many do. I think it 's wrong." 

" Come, come, Eva ; you are only a child ! You know nothing about 
these things," said Marie ; " besides, your talking makes my head ache." 

Marie always had a headache on hand for any conversation that did not 
exactly suit her. Eva stole away; but after that she assiduously gave 
Mammy reading-lessons. 



About this time St. Clare's brother Alfred, wath his eldest son, a boy of 
twelve, spent a day or two with the family at the lake. 

No sight could be more singular and beautiful than that of these twin 
brothers. Nature, instead of instituting resemblances between them, had 
made them opposites on every point ; yet a mysterious tie seemed to unite 
them in a closer friendship than ordinary. 

They used to saunter, arm in arm, up and down the alleys and walks of 
the garden — Augustine, with his blue eyes and golden hair, his ethereally 
flexible form and vivacious features ; and Alfred, dark-eyed, \A\}a. haughty 
Roman profile, firmly knit limbs, and decided bearing. They were always 
abusing each other's opinions and practices, and yet never a whit the less 
absorbed in each other's society; in fact, the very contrariety seemed to 
unite them. 

Henrique, the eldest son of Alfred, was a noble, dark-eyed, princely 
boy, full of vivacity and spirit; and, from the first moment of introduc- 
tion, seemed to be perfectly fascinated by the spiritueUe graces of his 
cousin Evangeline. 

Eva had a little pet pony of a snowy whiteness. It was easy as a cradle, 
and as gentle as its little mistress ; and this pony was now brought up to 
the back verandah by Tom, while a little mulatto boy of about thirteen led 
along a small black Arabian, which had just been imported, at a great 
expense, for Henrique. 

Henrique had a boy's pride in his new possession ; and, as he advanced 
and took the reins out of the hands of his little groom, he looked care- 
fully over him, and his brow darkened. 

" What 's this. Dodo, you little lazy dog ! you haven't rubbed my horse 
down this morning," 

"Yes, mas'r," said Dodo, submissively; "he got that dust on his own 

"You rascal, shut your mouth!" said Henrique, violently raising his 
riding-whip. " How dare you speak ! " 

The boy was a handsome, bright-eyed mulatto, of just Henrique's size, 
and his curling hair hung round a high, bold forehead. He had white 


blood in his veins, as could be seen by the quick flush in his cheek, and 
the sparkle of his eye, as he eagerly tried to speak. 

" Mas'r Henrique ! — " he began. 

Henrique struck him across the face with his riding-whip, and, seizing 
one of his arms, forced him on to his knees, and beat him till he was out 
of breath. 

" There, you impudent dog ! Now will you learn not to answer back 
when I speak to you? Take the horse back, and clean him properly. 
I '11 teach you your place ! " 

" Young mas'r," said Tom, " I 'specs what he was g^vine to say was, 
that the horse would roll when he was bringing him up from the stable — 
he 's so full of spirits. That 's the way he got that dirt on him ; I looked 
to his cleaning." 

" You hold your tongue till you 're asked to speak ! " said Henrique, 
turning on his heel, and walking up the steps to speak to Eva, who stood 
in her riding-dress. 

"Dear cousin, I'm sorry this stupid fellow has kept you waiting," he 
said. Let's sit down here, on this seat, till they come. What's the 
matter, cousin ? — you look sober." 

" How could you be so cruel and wicked to poor Dodo ? " said Eva. 

" Cruel ! — wicked ! " said the boy with unaffected surprise. " What do 
you mean, dear Eva ? " 

" I don't want you to call me dear Eva when you do so," said Eva. 

" Dear cousin, you don't know Dodo ; it 's the only way to manage him, 
he 's so full of lies and excuses. The only way is to put him down at once 
— not let him open his mouth ; that 's the way papa manages." 

" But Uncle Tom said it was an accident, and he never tells what isn't 

" He 's an uncommon old nigger, then ! " said Henrique. " Dodo will 
lie as fast as he can speak." 

" You frighten him into deceiving, if you treat him so." 

" Why, Eva, you 've really taken such a fancy to Dodo, that I shall be 

" But you beat him, and he didn't deserve it." 

" Oh, well, it may go for some time when he does, and don't get it. A 
few cuts never come amiss with Dodo— he's a regular spirit, I can tell 
you ; but I won't beat him again before you, if it troubles you." 

Eva was not satisfied, but found it in vain to try to make her handsome 
cousin understand her feelings. 

Dodo soon appeared with the horses. 

"Well, Dodo, you've done pretty well this time," said his young master, 
with a more gracious air. " Come, now, and hold INIiss Eva's horse, while 
I put her on to the saddle." 

Dodo came and stood by Eva's pony. His face was troubled ; his 
eyes looked as if he had been crying. 

Henrique, who valued himself on his gentlemanly adroitness in all 
matters of gallantry, soon had his fair cousin in the saddle, and gathering 
the reins, placed them in her hands. 

But Eva bent to the other side of the horse, where Dodo was standing, 
and said, as he relinquished the reins — "That's a good boy. Dodo — 
thank you ! " 

Dodo looked up in amazement into the sweet young face ; the blood 
rushed to his cheeks and the tears to his eyes. 


" Here, Dodo," said his master imperiously. 

Dodo sprang and held the horse while his master mounted. 

" There 's a picayune for you to buy candy with, Dodo," said Henrique ; 
" go get some." 

And Henrique cantered down the walk after Eva. Dodo stood looking 
after the two children. One had given him money, and one had given 
him what he wanted far more — a kind word kindly spoken. Dodo had 
been only a few months away from his mother. His master had bought 
him at a slave warehouse, for his handsome face, to be a match to the 
handsome pony ; and he was now getting his breaking in, at the hands 
of his young master. 

The scene of the beating had been witnessed by the two brothers 
St. Clare, from another part of the garden. 

Augustine's cheek flushed; but he only observed, with his usual sarcastic 
carelessness, "I suppose that's what we may call republican education, 

"Henrique is a devil of a fellow, when his blood's up," said Alfred 

"I suppose you consider this an instructive practice for him?" said 
Augustine drily. 

" I couldn't help it if I didn't. Henrique is a regular little tempest — 
his mother and I have given him up long ago. But then that Dodo is a 
perfect sprite — no amount of whipping can hurt him." 

" And this by way of teaching Henrique the first verse of a republican's 
catechism, ' All men are born free and equal ! ' " 

" Poh ! " said Alfred ; " one of Tom Jefferson's pieces of French 
sentiment and humbug. It 's perfectly ridiculous to have that going the 
rounds among us to this day." 

" I think it is," said St. Clare significantly. 

"Because," said Alfred, "we can see plainly enough that all men are 
not born free, nor born equal ; they are born anything else. For my part, 
I think half this republican talk sheer humbug. It is the educated, the 
intelligent, the wealthy, the refined, who ought to have equal rights, and 
not the canaille.^'' 

" If you can keep the canaille of that opinion," said Augustine. " They 
took their turn once, in France." 

" Of course, they must be kept down consistently, steadily, as I should^' 
said Alfred, setting his foot hard down, as if he were standing on 

" It makes a terrible slip when they get up," said Augustine — " In St. 
Domingo, for instance." 

" Poh ! " said Alfred, " we '11 take care of that in this country. We 
must set our face against all this educating, elevating talk that is getting 
about now ; the lower class must not be educated." 

" That is past praying for," said Augustine ; " educated they will be, and 
we have only to say how. Our system is educating them in barbarism and 
brutality. We are breaking all humanizing ties, and making them brute 
beasts ; and if they get the upper hand, such we shall find them." 

" They shall never get the upper hand ! " said Alfred. 

" That 's right," said St. Clare ; " put on the steam, fasten down the 
escape-valve, and sit on it, and see where you '11 land." 

"Well," said Alfred, "we will see. I 'm not afraid to sit on the escape- 
valve, as long as the boilers are strong, and the machinery works well." 


"The nobles in Louis XVI.'s time thought just so; and Austria and 
Pius IX. think so now; and, some pleasant morning, you may all be 
caught up to meet each other in the air, when t/ie boilers burst." 

^^ Dies declarabit^' said Alfred, laughing. 

" I tell you," said Augustine, " if there is anything that is revealed with 
the strength of a divine law in our times, it is that the masses are to rise, 
and the under class become the upper one." 

" That 's one of your red republican humbugs, Augustine ! Why didn't 
you ever take to the stump ? You 'd make a famous stump orator ! Well, 
I hope I shall be dead before this millennium of your greasy masses 
comes on." 

" Greasy or not greasy, they will govern you, when their time comes," 
said Augustine; "and they will be just such rulers as you make them. 
The French noblesse chose to have people ' sans culottes^ and they had 
* sans culotte ' governors to their hearts' content. The people of Hayti " 

" Oh, come, Augustine ! as if we hadn't enough of that abominable, 
contemptible Hayti ! The Haytians were not Anglo-Saxons ; if they had 
been, there would have been another story. The Anglo-Saxon is the 
dominant race of the world, and is to be so." 

"Well, there is a pretty fair infusion of Anglo-Saxon blood among our 
slaves now," said Augustine. " There are plenty among them who have 
only enough of the African to give a sort of tropical warmth and fervour 
to our calculating firmness and foresight. If ever the San Domingo hour 
comes, Anglo-Saxon blood will lead on the day. Sons of white fathers, 
with all our haughty feelings burning in their veins, will not always be 
bought, and sold, and traded. They will rise, and raise with them their 
mother's race." 

" Stuff ! — nonsense ! " 

" Well," said Augustine, " there goes an old saying to this effect : ' As it 
was in the days of Noah, so shall it be ; they ate, they drank, they planted, 
they builded, and knew not till the Flood came and took them.' " 

" On the whole, Augustine, I think your talents might do for a circuit 
rider," said Alfred, laughing. " Never you fear for us ! possession is our 
nine points. We 've got the power. This subject race," said he, stamping 
firmly, " is down and shall stay down ! We have energy enough to manage 
our own powder." 

"Sons trained like your Henrique will be grand guardians of your 
powder-magazines," said Augustine, " so cool and self-possessed ! The 
proverb says, 'They that cannot govern themselves cannot govern 
others.' " 

"There is a trouble there," said Alfred thoughtfully; "there's no doubt 
that our system is a difficult one to train children under. It gives too free 
scope to the passions, altogether, which, in our climate, are hot enough. I . 
find trouble with Henrique. The boy is generous and warm-hearted, but •' 
a perfect fire-cracker when excited. I believe I shall send him north for 
his education, where obedience is more fashionable, and where he will 
associate more with equals, and less with dependants." 

" Since training children is the staple work of the human race," said 
Augustine, " I should think it something of a consideration that our 
system does not work well there." 

" It does not for some things," said Alfred ; " for others, again, it does. 
It makes boys manly and courageous; and the very vices of an abject 
race tend to strengthen in them the opposite virtues. I think Henrique, 


now, has a keener sense of the beauty of truth, from seeing lying and 
deception the universal badge of slavery." 

" A Christian-like view of the subject, certainly ! " said Augustine. 

" It 's true, Christian-like or not ; and is about as Christian-like as most 
other things in the world," said Alfred. 

" That may be," said St. Clare. 

" Well, there 's no use in talking, Augustine. I believe we 've been 
round and round this old track five hundred times, more or less. What 
do you say to a game of backgammon ? " 

The two brothers ran up the verandah steps, and were soon seated at a 
light bamboo stand, with the backgammon-board between them. As 
they were setting their men, Alfred said — 

" I tell you, Augustine, if I thought as you do, I should do something." 

" I dare say you would — you are one of the doing sort ; but what ? " 

" Why, elevate your own servants, for a specimen," said Alfred, with a 
half-scornful smile. 

" You might as well set Mount Etna on them flat, and tell them to 
stand up under it, as tell me to elevate my servants under all the superin- 
cumbent mass of society upon them. One man can do nothing against 
the whole action of a community. Education, to do anything, must be a 
state education; or there must be enough agreed in it to make a current." 

" You take the first throw," said Alfred ; and the brothers were soon 
lost in the game, and heard no more till the scraping of horses' feet was 
heard under the verandah. 

" There come the children," said Augustine, rising. " Look here, Alf \ 
Did you ever see anything so beautiful ? " And, in truth, it was a 
beautiful sight. Henrique, with his bold brow, and dark, glossy curls, 
and glowing cheek, was laughing gaily, as he bent towards his fair cousin, 
as they came on. She was dressed in a blue riding-dress, with a cap of 
the same colour. Exercise had given a brilliant hue to her cheeks, and 
heightened the effect of her singularly transparent skin and golden hair. 

" Good heavens ! what perfectly dazzling beauty ! " said Alfred. " I 
tell you, Augustine, won't she make some hearts ache, one of these 
days ! " 

" She will, too truly — God knows, I 'm afraid so ! " said St. Clare, in a 
tone of sudden bitterness, as he hurried down to take her off her horse. 

" Eva, darling ! you 're not much tired ? " he said, as he clasped her in 
his arms. 

" No, papa," said the child ; but her short, hard breathing alarmed her 

" HovvT could you ride so fast, dear ? You know it 's bad for you." 

" I felt so well, papa, and liked it so much, I forgot." 

St. Clare carried her in his arms into the parlour, and laid her on the 

" Henrique, you must be careful of Eva," said he ; " you mustn't ride 
fast with her," 

" I '11 take her under my care," said Henrique, seating himself by the 
sofa, and taking Eva's hand. 

Eva soon found herself much better. Her father and uncle resumed 
their game, and the children were left together. 

" Do you know, Eva, I 'm so sorry papa is only going to stay two days 
here, and then I shan't see you again for ever so long ! If I stay with 
you, I 'd try to be good, and not be cross with Dodo, and so on. I don't 


mean to treat Dodo ill; but, you know, I Ve got such a quick temper. I 'm 
not really bad to him, though. I give him a picayune, now and then ; 
and you see he dresses well. I think, on the whole, Dodo 's pretty well 

" Would you think you were well off, if there were not one creature in 
the world near you to love you ? " 

" I ? Well, of course not." 

" And you have taken Dodo away from all the friends he ever had, and 
now he has not a creature to love him ; nobody can be good that way." 

" Well, I can't help it, as I know of. I can't get his mother, and I can't 
love him myself, nor anybody else, as I know of." 

" Why can't you ? " said Eva. 

" Love Dodo ! Why, Eva, you wouldn't have me ! I may like him well 
enough ; but you don't love your servants." 

" I do, indeed." 

« How odd ! " 

" Don't the Bible say we must love everybody ? " 

" Oh, the Bible ! To be sure, it says a great many such things ; but 
then nobody ever thinks of doing them — you know, Eva, nobody does." 

Eva did not speak ; her eyes were fixed and thoughtful for a few 

" At any rate," she said, " dear cousin, do love poor Dodo, and be kind 
to him for my sake ! " 

" I could love anything for your sake, dear cousin ; for I really think 
you are the loveliest creature that I ever saw ! " And Henrique spoke 
with an earnestness that flushed his handsome face. Eva received it with 
perfect simplicity, without even a change of feature ; merely saying, 
" I 'm glad you feel so, dear Henrique ! I hope you will remember." 

The dinner-bell put an end to the interview. 



Two days after this, Alfred St. Clare and Augustine parted ; and Eva, 
who had been stimulated by the society of her young cousin to exertions 
beyond her strength, began to fail rapidly. St. Clare was at last willing to 
call in medical advice, a thing from which he had always shrunk, because 
it was the admission of an unwelcome truth. But for a day or two Eva 
was so unwell as to be confined to the house, and the doctor was called. 

Marie St. Clare had taken no notice of the child's gradually decaying 
health and strength, because she was completely absorbed in studying out 
two or three new forms of disease to which she believed she herself was a 
victim. It was the first principle of Marie's belief that nobody ever was 
or could be so great a sufferer as herself; and therefore she always repelled 
quite indignantly any suggestion that anyone around her could be sick. 
She was always sure in such a case that it was nothing but laziness or want 
of energy ; and that, if they had had the suffering she had, they would 
soon know the difference. 

Miss Ophelia had several times tried to awaken her maternal fears 
about Eva, but to no avail. 


"I don't see as anything ails the child," she would say; "she runs 
about and plays." 

" But she has a cough." 

" Cough ! you don't need to tell me about a cough. I 've always been 
subject to a cough all my days. When I was of Eva's age, they thought I 
was in a consumption. Night after night, Mammy used to sit up with me. 
Oh, Eva's cough is not anything ! " 

" But she gets weak, and is short-breathed." 

" Law ! I 've had that years and years ; it 's only a nervous affection." 

" But she sweats so, nights ! " 

'* Well, I have these ten years. Very often, night after night, my 
clothes will be wringiijg wet. There won't be a dry thread in my night 
clothes, and the sheets will be so that Mammy has to hang them up to 
dry ! Eva doesn't sweat anything like that ! " 

Miss Ophelia shut her mouth for a season. But now that Eva Was 
fairly and visibly prostrated, and a doctor called, Marie all on a sudden 
took a new turn. 

She knew it, she said, she always felt it, that she was destined to be 
the most miserable of mothers. Here she was, with her wretched health, 
and her only darling child going down to the grave before her eyes ! And 
Marie routed up Mammy at nights, and rumpussed and scolded with more 
energy than ever all day, on the strength of this new misery. 

" My dear Marie, don't talk so ! " said St. Clare. " You ought not to 
give up the case so at once." 

" You have not a mother's feelings, St. Clare. You never could under- 
stand me ! — you don't now." 

" But don't talk so, as if it were a gone case ! " 

" I can't take it as indifferently as you can, St. Clare. If you don't feel 
when your only child is in this alarming state, / do. It 's a blow too 
much for me, with all I was bearing before." 

"It's true," said St. Clare, "that Eva is very delicate, //^(^/ 1 always knew; 
and that she has grown so rapidly as to exhaust her strength ; and that her 
situation is critical. But just now she is only prostrated by the heat of 
the weather, and by the excitement of her cousin's visit, and the exertions 
she made. The physician says there is room for hope." 

" Well, of course, if you can look on the bright side, pray do ; it 's a 
mercy if people haven't sensitive feelings in this world. I am sure I wish 
I didn't feel as I do ; it only makes me completely wretched ! I wish I 
could be as easy as the rest of you." 

And the " rest of them " had good reason to breathe the same prayer, 
for Marie paraded her new misery as the reason and apology for all sorts 
of inflictions on every one about her. Every word that was spoken by 
anybody, everything that was done or was not done everywhere, was only 
a new proof that she was surrounded by hard-hearted, insensible beings, 
who were unmindful of her pecuHar sorrows. Poor Eva heard some of 
those speeches; and nearly cried her little eyes out in pity for her mamma, 
and in sorrow that she should make her so much distress. 

In a week or two there was a great improvement of symptoms — one of 
those deceitful lulls by which her inexorable disease so often beguiles the 
anxious heart, even on the verge of the grave. Eva's step was again in the 
garden — in the balconies ; she played and laughed again, and her father, 
in a transport, declared that they should soon have her as hearty as 
anybody. Miss Ophelia and the physician alone felt no encouragement 


from this illusive truce. There was one other heart, too, that felt the 
same certainty, and that was the little heart of Eva. What is it that 
sometimes speaks in the soul so calmly, so clearly, that its earthly time is 
short ? Is it the secret instinct of decaying nature, or the soul's impulsive 
throb, as immortality draws on ? Be it what it may, it rested in the heart 
of Eva, a calm, sweet, prophetic certainty that heaven was near ; calm as 
the light of sunset, sweet as the bright stillness of autumn, there her little 
heart reposed, only troubled by sorrow for those who loved her so dearly. 

For the child, though nursed so tenderly, and though life was unfolding 
before her with every brightness that love and wealth could give, had 
no regret for herself in dying. 

In that Book which she and her simple old friend had read so much 
together, she had seen and taken to her young heart the image of one who 
loved the little child ; and as she gazed and mused, he had ceased to be 
an image and a picture of the distant past, and came to be a living, 
all-surrounding reality. His love enfolded her childish heart with more 
than mortal tenderness ; and it was to Him, she said, she was going, 
and to his home. 

But her heart yearned with sad tenderness for all that she was to leave 
behind — her father most; for Eva, though she never distinctly thought so, had 
an instinctive perception that she was more in his heart than any other. 
She loved her mother because she was so loving a creature, and all the 
selfishness that she had seen in her only saddened and perplexed her ; for 
she had a child's implicit trust that her mother could not do wrong. 
There was something about her that Eva never could make out ; and she 
always smoothed it over with thinking that, after all, it was mamma, 
and she loved her very dearly indeed. 

She felt, too, for those fond, faithful servants, to whom she was as 
daylight and sunshine. Children do not usually generalise ; but Eva was 
an uncommonly mature child, and the things that she had witnessed of 
the evils of the system under which they were living had fallen, one by 
one, into the depths of her thoughtful, pondering heart. She had vague 
longings to do something for them — to bless and save not only them, but 
all in their condition — longings that contrasted sadly with the feebleness 
of her little frame. 

" Uncle Tom," she said, one day, when she was reading to her friend, 
*' I can understand why Jesus wa?ited to die for us." 

"Why, Miss Eva?" 

" Because I 've felt so too." 

" What is it, Miss Eva ? I don't understand." 

" I can't tell you ; but when I saw those poor creatures on the boat, 
you know, when you came up and I, some had lost their mothers, and 
some their husbands, and some mothers cried for their little children ; and 
when I heard about poor Prue — oh, wasn't that dreadful ? — and a 
^reat many other times, I 've felt that I would be glad to die if my dying 
could stop all this misery. I would die for them, Tom, if I could," said 
the child earnestly, laying her little thin hand on his. 

Tom looked at the child with awe ; and when she, hearing her father's 
voice, glided away, he wiped his eyes many times as he looked after her. 

" It 's jest no use tryin' to keep Miss Eva here," he said to Mammy, 
whom he met a moment after. "She's got the Lord's mark in her 

"Ah, yes, yes," said Mammy, raising her hands, "I've allers said 


so. She wasn't never like a child that 's to live — there was allers some- 
thing deep in her eyes. I 've told missis so many the time ; it 's a comin' 
true — we all sees it — dear, little, blessed lamb ! " 

Eva came tripping up the verandah steps to her father. It was late 
in the afternoon, and the rays of the sun formed a kind of glory behind 
her, as she came forward in her white dress, with her golden hair and 
glowing cheeks, her eyes unnaturally bright with the slow fever that 
burned in her veins. 

St. Clare had called her to show a statuette that he had been buying for 
her; but her appearance, as she came on, impressed him suddenly and 
painfully. There is a kind of beauty so intense, yet so fragile, that we 
cannot bear to look at it. Her father folded her suddenly in his arms, and 
almost forgot what he was going to tell her. 

" Eva, dear, you are better nowadays, are you not ? " 

" Papa," said Eva, with sudden firmness, " I 've had things I wanted to 
say to you a great while. I want to say them now, before I get weaker." 

St. Clare trembled as Eva seated herself in his lap. She laid her head 
on his bosom, and said — 

" It 's all no use, papa, to keep it to myself any longer. The time 
is coming that I am going to leave you. I am going, and never to come 
back ! " and Eva sobbed. 

" Oh, now, my dear little Eva ! " said St. Clare, trembling as he 
spoke, but speaking cheerfully, " you 've got nervous and low-spirited ; you 
mustn't indulge such gloomy thoughts. See here, I 've bought a statuette 
for you ! " 

" No, papa," said Eva, putting it gently away, " don't deceive yourself ! 
I am not any better — I know it perfectly well ; and I am going before 
long. I am not nervous — I am not low-spirited. If it were not for you, 
papa, and my friends, I should be perfectly happy. I want to go — I long 
to go ! " 

" Why, dear child, what has made your poor little heart so sad ? You 
have had everything to make you happy that could be given you ? " 

" I had rather be in heaven, though — only for my friends' sake I would 
be willing to live. There are a great many things here that make me sad, 
that seem dreadful to me. I had rather be there ; but I don't want to 
leave you — it almost breaks my heart ! " 

" What makes you sad, and seems dreadful, Eva ? " 

"Oh, things that are done, and done all the time. I feel sad for 
our poor people ; they love me dearly, and they are all good and kind to 
me. I wish, papa, they were allj^^^." 

"Why, Eva, child, don't you think they are all well enough off 
now ? " 

" Oh, but, papa, if anything should happen to you, what would become 
of them ? There are very few men like you, papa. Uncle Alfred isn't 
like you, and mamma isn't ; and then think of poor old Prue's owners 1 
What horrid things people do, and can do ! " and Eva shuddered. 

"My dear child, you are too sensitive. I'm sorry I ever let you hear 
such stories." 

" Oh, that 's what troubles me, papa ! You want me to live so happy, 
and never to have any pain, never suffer anything, not even hear a sad 
story, when other poor creatures have nothing but pain and sorrow all 
their lives ; it seems selfish. I ought to know such things — I ought 
to feel about them. Such things always sunk into my heart, they went 


down deep ; I 've thought and thought about them. Papa, isn't there any- 
way to have all slaves made free ? " 

" That 's a difficult question, dearest. There 's no doubt that this way- 
is a very bad one, a great many people think so ; I do myself. I heartily 
wish that there was not a slave in the land ; but then I don't know what is 
to be done about it." 

"Papa, you are such a good man, and so noble and kind, and you 
always have a way of saying things that is so pleasant ; couldn't you go all 
round and try to persuade people to do right about this? When I am 
dead, papa, then you will think of me, and do it for my sake. I would do 
It if I could." 

" When you are dead, Eva ! " said St. Clare passionately. " Oh, child, 
don't talk to me so ! You are all I have on earth." 

" Poor old Prue's child was all that she had ; and yet she had to hear it 
crying, and she couldn't help it ! Papa, these poor creatures love their 
children as much as you do me. Oh, do something for them ! There 's 
poor Mammy loves her children ; I 've seen her cry when she talked about 
them. And Tom loves his children ; and it 's dreadful, papa, that 
such things are happening all the time ! " 

" There, there, darling," said St. Clare soothingly ; " only don't distress 
yourself, and don't talk of dying, and I will do anything you wish." 

"And promise me, dear father, that Tom shall have his freedom as 
soon as — " she stopped, and said in a hesitating tone — " I am gone ! " 

"Yes, dear, I will do anything in the world — anything you could 
ask me to." 

"Dear papa," said the child, laying her burning cheek against his, 
" how I wish we could go together ! " 

" Where, dearest ? " said St. Clare. 

" To our Saviour's home ; it 's so sweet and peaceful there — it is all sa 
loving there ! " The child spoke unconsciously, as of a place where she had 
often been. " Don't you w^ant to go, papa ? " she said. 

St. Clare drew her closer to him, but was silent. 

"You will come to me," said the child, speaking in a voice of calm 
certainty, which she often used unconsciously. 

" I shall come after you. I shall 'not forget you." 

The shadows of the solemn evening closed round them deeper and deeper, 
as St. Clare sat silently holding the little frail form to his bosom. He saw 
no more the deep eyes, but the voice came over him as a spirit voice ; and, 
as in a sort of judgment vision, his whole past life rose in a moment 
before his eyes — his mother's prayers and hymns— his own early yearnings 
and aspirings for good; and, between them and this hour, years of 
worldliness and scepticism, and what man calls respectable living. We 
can think mucJi., very much, in a moment. St. Clare saw and felt many 
things, but spoke nothing ; and, as it grew darker, he took his child to her 
bedroom ; and, when she was prepared for rest, he sent away the 
attendants, and rocked her in his arms, and sang to her till she was 
? sleep. 





It was Sunday afternoon. St. Clare was stretched on a bamboo lounge 
in the verandah, solacing himself with a cigar. Marie lay reclined on 
a sofa, opposite the window opening on the verandah, closely secluded, 
under an awning of transparent gauze, from the outrages of the 
mosquitos, and languidly holding in her hand an elegantly bound prayer- 
book. She was holding it because it was Sunday, and she imagined 
she had been reading it — though, in fact, she had been only taking a 
succession of short naps, with it open in her hand. 

Miss Ophelia, who, after some rummaging, had hunted up a small 
Methodist meeting within riding distance, had gone out, with Tom as 
driver, to attend it, and Eva had accompanied them. 

" I say, Augustine," said Marie, after dozing a while, " I must send to 
the city after my old Doctor Posey ; I 'm sure I 've got the complaint of 
the heart." 

" Well ; why need you send for him ? This doctor that attends Eva 
seems skilful." 

" I would not trust him in a critical case," said Marie, " and I think I 
may say mine is becoming so ! I 've been thinking of it these two or 
three nights past ; I have such distressing pains, and such strange feelings." 

" Oh, Marie, you are blue ; I don't believe it 's heart complaint." 

" I dare say you don't," said Marie ; " I was prepared to expect that 
You can be alarmed enough if Eva coughs or has the least thing the 
matter with her, but you never think of me." 

" If it 's particularly agreeable to you to have heart-disease, why, I '11 
try and maintain you have it," said St. Clare ; " I didn't know it was." 

"Well, I only hope you won't be sorry for this when it's too late!" 
said Marie; "but, believe it or not, my distress about Eva, and the 
exertions I have made with that dear child, have developed what I have 
long suspected." 

What the exertions were which Marie referred to it would have been 
difficult to state. St. Clare quietly made this commentary to himself, 
and went on smoking, like a hard-hearted wretch of a man as he was, till 
a carriage drove up before the verandah, and Eva and Miss Ophelia 

Miss Ophelia marched straight to her own chamber, to put away her 
bonnet and shawl, as was always her manner, before she spoke a word on 
any subject; while Eva came, at St. Clare's call, and was sitting on his 
knee, giving him an account of the services they had heard. 

They soon heard loud exclamations from Miss Ophelia's room (which, 
like the one in which they were sitting, opened to the verandah), and 
violent reproof addressed to somebody. 

"^Vhat new witchcraft has Tops been brewing?" asked St. Clare. 
*' That commotion is of her raising, I '11 be bound." 

And in a moment after, Miss Ophelia, in high indignation, came 
■dragging the culprit along. 

" Come out here, now !" she said. " I will tell your master !" 

"What's the case now?" asked Augustine. 


" The case is, that I cannot be plagued with this child any longer t 
It 's past all bearing ; flesh and blood cannot endure it ! Here, I locked 
her up, and gave her a hymn to study ; and what does she do, but spy out 
where I put my key, and has gone to my bureau, and got a bonnet- 
trimming, and cut it all to pieces to make dolls' jackets ! I never saw 
anything like it in my life." 

" I told you, cousin," said Marie, " that you 'd find out that these 
creatures can't be brought up without severity. If I had 7ny way, now," 
she said, looking reproachfully at St. Clare, " I 'd send that child out, and 
have her thoroughly whipped ; I 'd have her whipped till she couldn't 

"I don't doubt it," said St. Clare. "Tell me of the lovely rule of 
woman ! I never saw above a dozen women that wouldn't half kill a 
horse, or a servant, either, if they had their own way with them, let alone 
a man." 

"There is no use in this shilly-shally way of yours, St. Clare!" said 
Marie. " Cousin is a woman of sense, and she sees it now as plain as I 

Miss Ophelia had just the capability of indignation that belongs to the 
thorough-paced housekeeper, and this had been pretty actively roused by 
the artifice and wastefulness of the child; in fact, many of my lady 
readers must own that they should have felt just so in her circumstances ; 
but Marie's words went beyond her, and she felt less heat. 

" I wouldn't have the child treated so for the world," she said ; " but 
I am sure, Augustine, I don't know what to do. I 've taught and taught, 
I 've talked till I 'm tired, I 've whipped her, I 've punished her in every 
way I can think of; and still she 's just what she was at first." 

"Come here. Tops, you monkey!" said St. Clare, calHng the child up 
to him. 

Topsy came up ; her round, hard eyes glittering and blinking with a 
mixture of apprehensiveness and their usual odd drollery. 

"What makes you behave so?" said St. Clare, who could not help 
being amused with the child's expression. 

" 'Spects it 's my wicked heart," said Topsy demurely ; " Miss Feely says 

" Don't you see how much Miss Ophelia has done for you ? She says 
she has done everything she can think of." 

" Lor', yes, mas'r ! old missus used to say so, too. She whipped me a 
heap harder, and used to pull my ha'r, and knock my head agin the door ; 
but it didn't do me no good ! I 'spects, if they 's to pull every spear o* 
ha'r out o' my head it wouldn't do no good neither. I 's so wicked ! 
Laws ! I 's nothin' but a nigger, no ways !" 

" Well, I shall have to give her up," said Miss Ophelia ; " I can't have 
that trouble any longer." 

" Well, I 'd just like to ask one question," said St. Clare. 

"What is it?" 

" Why, if your Gospel is not strong enough to save one heathen child 
that you can have at home here, all to yourself, what 's the use of sending 
one or two poor missionaries off with it among thousands of just such? 
I suppose this child is about a fair sample of what thousands of your 
heathen are." 

Miss Ophelia did not make an immediate answer ; and Eva, who had 
stood a silent spectator of the scene thus far, made a silent sign to Topsy 


to follow her. There was a little glass-room at the corner of the verandah, 
which St. Clare used as a sort of reading-room ; and Eva and Topsy dis- 
appeared into this place. 

"What's Eva going about, now?" said St. Clare; "I mean to see." 
And, advancing on tip-toe, he lifted up a curtain that covered the glass- 
door, and looked in. In a moment, laying his finger on his lips, he made 
a, silent gesture to Miss Ophelia to come and look. There sat the two 
children on the floor with their side faces towards them — Topsy with her 
usual air of careless drollery and unconcern ; but, opposite to her, Eva, 
her whole face fervent with feeling, and tears in her large eyes. 

"What does make you so bad, Topsy? Why won't you try and be 
good? Don't you love anybody, Topsy?" 

"Donno nothing 'bout love; I love candy and sich, that's all," said 

" But you love your father and mother?" 

" Never had none, ye know. I telled ye that, Miss Eva." 

" Oh, I know," said Eva sadly ; " but hadn't you any brother, or sister, 

or aunt, or " 

" No, none on 'em — never had nothing nor nobody." 
" But, Topsy, if you 'd only try to be good, you might- 

' Couldn't never be nothing but a nigger, if I was ever so good," said 
Topsy. " If I could be skinned, and come white, I 'd try then." 

" But people can love you, if you are black, Topsy. Miss Ophelia 
would love you if you were good." 

Topsy gave the short, blunt laugh that was her common mode of ex- 
pressing incredulity. 

"Don't you think so?" said Eva. 

" No ; she can't b'ar me, 'cause I 'm a nigger ! — she 'd 's soon have a 
toad touch her. There can't nobody love niggers, and niggers can't do 
nothin'. /don't care," said Topsy, beginning to whistle. 

"Oh, Topsy, poor child, /love you !" said Eva, with a sudden burst of 
feeling, and laying her little thin, white hand on Topsy 's shoulder. " I 
love you, because you haven't had any father, or mother, or friends — ■ 
because you 've been a poor, abused child ! I love you, and I want you 
to be good. I am very unwell, Topsy, and I think I shan't live a great 
while ; and it really grieves me to have you be so naughty. I wish you 
would try to be good, for my sake : it 's only a little while I shall be with 

The round, keen eyes of the black child were overcast with tears; 
large, bright drops rolled heavily down, one by one, and fell on the little 
white hand. Yes, in that moment a ray of real belief, a ray of heavenly 
love, had penetrated the darkness of her heathen soul ! She laid her 
head down between her knees, and wept, and sobbed ; while the beautiful 
child, bending over her, looked like the picture of some bright angel 
stooping to reclaim a sinner. 

" Poor Topsy !" said Eva; "don't you know that Jesus loves all alike? 
He is just as willing to love you as me. He loves you just as I do, only 
more, because he is better. He will help you to be good, and you can go 
to heaven at last, and be an angel for ever, just as much as if you were 
white. Only think of it, Topsy ! you can be one of those spirits bright 
Uncle Tom sings about." 

"Oh, dear Miss Eva! dear Miss Eva!" said the child, "I will try I I 
will try ! I never did care nothin' about it before." 



St. Clare at this instant dropped the curtain. " It puts me in mind of 
mother," he said to Miss Ophelia. " It is true what she told me : if we 
want to give sight to the blind, we must be willing to do as Christ did — • 
call them to us, and put our hands on themP 

" I Ve always had a prejudice against negroes," said Miss Ophelia ; 
" and it 's a fact, I never could bear to have that child touch me : but I 
didn't think she knew it." 

"Trust any child to find that out," said St. Clare; "there's no keeping 
it from them. But I believe that all the trying in the world to benefit a 
child, and all the substantial favours you can do them, will never excite 
one emotion of gratitude while that feeling of repugnance remains in the 
heart ; it 's a queer kind of fact, but so it is." 

" I don't know how I can help it," said Miss Ophelia ; " they are dis- 
agreeable to me — this child in particular. How can I help feeling so ?" 

" Eva does, it seems." 

" Well, she 's so loving ! After all, though, she 's no more than Christ- 
like," said Miss Ophelia ; " I wish I were Hke her. She might teach me 
a lesson." 

" It wouldn't be the first time a little child had been used to instruct an 
old disciple, if it were so," said St. Clare. 



"Weep not for those whom the veil of the tomb, 
In life's early morning, hath hid from our eyes." 

Eva's bedroom was a spacious apartment, which, like all the other rooms 
in the house, opened on to the broad verandah. The room communi- 
cated, on one side with her father and mother's apartment ; on the other, 
with that appropriated to Miss Ophelia. St. Clare had gratified his own 
eye and taste in furnishing this room in a style that had a peculiar keeping 
with the character of her for whom it was intended. The windows were 
hung with curtains of rose-coloured and white muslin; the floor was spread 
with a matting which had been ordered in Paris, to a pattern of his own 
device, having round it a border of rosebuds and leaves, and a centre-piece 
with full-blown roses. The bedstead, chairs, and lounges were of bamboo, 
wrought in peculiarly graceful and fanciful patterns. Over the head of the 
bed was an alabaster bracket, on w^hich a beautiful sculptured angel stood 
with drooping wings, holding out a crown of myrtle-leaves. From this de- 
pened, over the bed, light curtains of rose-coloured gauze, striped with 
silver, supplying that protection from mosquitos which is an indispensable 
addition to all sleeping accommodation in that climate. The graceful 
bamboo lounges were amply supplied with cushions of rose-coloured 
damask; while over them, depending from the hands of sculptured 
figures, were gauze curtains similar to those of the bed. A light, 
fanciful bamboo table stood in the middle of the room, where a Parian 
vase, wrought in the shape of a white lily, with its buds, stood, ever 
filled with flowers. On this table lay Eva's books and little trinkets, 
with an elegantly wrought alabaster writing - stand, which her father 
had supplied to her when he saw her trying to improve herself in 


writing. There was a fireplace in the room ; and on the marble mantel 
above stood a beautifijlly wrought statuette of Jesus receiving little 
children, and on either side marble vases, for which it was Tom's pride 
and dehght to offer bouquets every morning. Two or three exquisite 
paintings of children, in various attitudes, embellished the wall. In short, 
the eye could turn nowhere without meeting images of childhood, of 
beauty, and of peace. Those little eyes never opened, in the morning 
light, without falling on something which suggested to the heart soothing 
and beautiful thoughts. 

The deceitful strength which had buoyed Eva up for a little while was 
fast passing away ; seldom and more seldom her light footstep was heard 
in the verandah, and oftener and oftener she was found reclined on a little 
lounge by the open window, her large, deep eyes fixed on the rising and 
falling waters of the lake. 

It was towards the middle of the afternoon, as she was so reclining — 
her Bible half-open, her little transparent fingers lying listlessly between 
the leaves — suddenly she heard her mother's voice, in sharp tones, in the 

" What now, you baggage ! what new piece of mischief ! You 've been 
picking the flowers, eh ? " and Eva heard the sound of a smart slap. 

" Law, missis ! they 's for Miss Eva," she heard a voice say, which she 
knew belonged to Topsy. 

" Miss Eva ! A pretty excuse ! you suppose she wants your flowers, 
you good-for-nothing nigger ! Get along ofi" with you ! " 

In a moment, Eva was off" from her lounge, and in the verandah. 

" Oh, don't, mother ! I should like the flowers ; do give them to me ; 
I want them." 

" Why, Eva, your room is full now." 

" I can't have too many," said Eva. " Topsy, do bring them here." 

Topsy, who had stood sullenly holding down her head, now came up 
and offered her flowers. She did it with a look of hesitation and bashfulness 
quite unlike the eldrich boldness and brightness which was usual wiJi her. 

" It 's a beautiful bouquet ! " said Eva, looking at it. 

It was rather a singular one — a brilliant scarlet geranium, and one 
single white japonica, with its glossy leaves. It was tied up with an 
evident eye to the contrast of colour, and the arrangement of every leaf 
had been carefully studied. 

Topsy looked pleased, as Eva said, " Topsy, you arrange flowers very 
prettily. Here," she said, " in this vase I haven't any flowers. I wish 
you 'd arrange something every day for it." 

"Well, that's odd!" said Marie. "What in the world do you want 
that for ? " 

" Never mind, mamma ; you 'd as lief as not Topsy should do it — had 
you not?" 

" Of course, anything you please, dear ! Topsy, you hear your young 
mistress ; see that you mind." 

Topsy made a short curtesy, and looked down ; and, as she turned 
away, Eva saw a tear roll down her dark cheek. 

"You see, mamma, I knew poor Topsy wanted to do something for 
me," said Eva to her mother. 

" Oh, nonsense ! it 's only because she likes to do mischief. She knows 
she mustn't pick flowers, so she does it ; that 's all there is to it. But if 
you fancy to have her pluck them, so be it." 


" Mamma, I think Topsy is different from what she used to be ; she 's 
trying to be a good girl." 

" She '11 have to try a good while before she gets to be good," said Marie, 
with a careless laugh. 

" Well, you know, mamma, poor Topsy ! everything has always been 
against her." 

" Not since she 's been here, I 'm sure. If she hasn't been talked to, 
and preached to, and every earthly thing done that anybody could do ; 
and she 's just so ugly, and always will be, you can't make anything of the 
creature ! " 

" But, mamma, it 's so different to be brought up as I 've been, with 
so many friends, so many things to make me good and happy, and to 
be brought up as she 's been, all the time, till she came here ! " 

" Most likely," said Marie, yawning. " Dear me, how hot it is ! " 

" Mamma, you believe, don't you, that Topsy could become an angel, as 
well as any of us, if she were a Christian ? " 

" Topsy ! what a ridiculous idea ! Nobody but you would ever think of 
it. I suppose she could, though." 

" But, mamma, isn't God her Father, as much as ours ? Isn't Jesus her 
Saviour ? " 

" Well, that may be. I suppose God made everybody," said Marie. 
" Where is my smelling-bottle ? " 

" It 's such a pity — oh, such a. pity ! " said Eva, looking out on the 
distant lake, and half speaking to herself. 

" What 's a pity ? " 

*' Why, that any one, who could be a bright angel, and live with angels, 
should go all down, down, down, and nobody help them ! Oh, dear ! " 

" Well, we can't help it ; it 's no use worrying, Eva ! I don't know 
what 's to be done ; we ought to be thankful for our own advantages." 

" I hardly can be," said Eva ; " I 'm so sorry to think of poor folks that 
haven't any." 

" That 's odd enough," said Marie ; " I 'm sure my religion makes me 
thankful for my advantages." 

" Mamma," said Eva, " I want to have some of my hair cut off — a good 
deal of it." 

"What for? "said Marie. 

" Mamma, I want to give some away to my friends, while I am able 
to give it to them myself. Won't you ask aunty to come and cut it 
for me ? " 

Marie raised her voice, and called Miss Ophelia from the other room. 

The child half rose from her pillow as she came in, and shaking down 
her long golden-brown curls, said, rather playfully, "Come, aunty, shear 
the sheep ! " 

" What 's that ? " said St. Clare, who had just then entered with some 
fruit he had been out to get for her. 

" Papa, I just want aunty to cut off some of my hair ; there 's too 
much of it, and it makes my head hot. Besides, I want to give some 
of it away." 

Miss Ophelia came with her scissors. 

" Take care, don't spoil the looks of it ! " said her father ; " cut under- 
neath, where it won't show. Eva's curls are my pride." 

" Oh, papa ! " said Eva sadly. 

"Yes, and I want them kept handsome against the time I take you up 



to your uncle's plantation, to see Cousin Henrique," said St. Clare, in a 
gay tone. 

" I shall never go there, papa ; I am going to a better country. Oh, do 
believe me ! Don't you see, papa, that I get weaker every day ? " 

" Why do you insist that I shall believe such a cruel thing, Eva ? " said 
her father. 

" Only because it is true, papa ; and if you will believe it now, perhaps 
you will get to feel about it as I do." 

St. Clare closed his lips, and stood gloomily eyeing the long, beautiful 
curls, which, as they were separated from the child's head, were laid, one 
by one, in her lap. She raised them up, looked earnestly at them, twined 
them round her thin fingers, and looked, from time to time, anxiously 
at her father. 

"It's just what I've been foreboding," said Marie; "it's just what has 
been preying on my health from day to day, bringing me downward to the 
grave, though nobody regards it. I have seen this long. St. Clare, you 
will see, after a while, that I was right." 

" Which will afford you great consolation, no doubt ! " said St. Clare, in 
a dry, bitter tone. 

Marie lay back on a lounge, and covered her face with her cambric 

Eva's clear blue eye looked earnestly from one to the other. It was the 
calm, comprehending gaze of a soul half loosed from its earthly bonds ; it 
was evident she saw, felt, and appreciated the difference between the two. 

She beckoned with her hand to her father. He came, and sat down by 

"Papa, my strength fades away every day, and I know I must go. 
There are some things I want to say and do, that I ought to do ; and you 
are so unwilling to have me speak a word on this subject. But it must 
come ; there 's no putting it off. Do be willing I should speak now ! " 

" My child, I a?n willing," said St. Clare, covering his eyes with one 
hand, and holding up Eva's hand with the other. 

" Then I want to see all our people together. I have some things I must 
say to them," said Eva. 

" Well! " said St. Clare, in a tone of dry endurance. 

Miss Ophelia despatched a messenger, and soon the whole of the 
servants were convened in the room. 

Eva lay back on her pillows, her hair hanging loosely about her face, her 
crimson cheeks contrasting painfully with the intense whiteness of her 
complexion and the thin contour of her limbs and features, and her large, 
soul-like eyes fixed earnestly on every one. 

The servants were struck with a sudden emotion. The spiritual face, 
the long locks of hair cut off and lying by her, her father's averted face, 
and Marie's sobs, struck at once upon the feelings of a sensitive and 
impressible race ; and, as they came in, they looked one on another, sighed, 
and shook their heads. There was a deep silence, like that of a funeral. 

Eva raised herself, and looked long and earnestly round at every one. 
All looked sad and apprehensive. Many of the women hid their faces in 
their aprons. 

" I sent for you all, my dear friends," said Eva, " because I love you. I 
love you all ; and I have something to say to you which I want you always 
to remember. . I am going to leave you. In a few more weeks, you 
will see me no more " 


Here the child was interrupted by bursts of groans, sobs, and lamenta- 
tions, which broke from all present, and in which her slender voice was 
lost entirely. She waited a moment, and then, speaking in a tone that 
checked the sobs of all, she said 

*' If you love me, you must not interrupt me so. Listen to what I say. 
I want to speak to you about your souls. . . . Many of you, I am afraid, 
are very careless. You are thinking only about this world. I want you to 
retnember that there is a beautiful world, where Jesus is. I am going 
there, and you can go there ; it is for you as much as me. But if you 
want to go there you must not live idle, careless, thoughtless lives; 
you must be Christians. You must remember that each one of you can 
become angels, and be angels for ever. ... If you want to be Christians, 
Jesus will help you. You must pray to him ; you must read " 

The child checked herself, looked piteously at them, and said sorrow- 

" Oh, dear — you cafiH read ! Poor souls ! " and she hid her face in the 
pillow and sobbed, while many a smothered sob from those she was 
addressing, who were kneeling on the floor, aroused her. 

" Never mind," she said, raising her face and smiling brightly through 
her tears, " I have prayed for you, and I know Jesus will help you, even if 
you can't read. Try all to do the best you can ; pray every day ; ask 
Him to help you, and get the Bible read to you whenever you can ; and I 
think I shall see you all in heaven." 

" Amen," was the murmured response from the lips of Tom and 
Mammy, and some of the elder ones, who belonged to the Methodist 
Church. The younger and more thoughtless ones, for the time com- 
pletely overcome, were sobbing, with their heads bowed upon their knees. 

"I know," said Eva, "you all love me." 

" Yes ! oh, yes ! indeed we do. Lord, bless her ! " was the involuntary 
answer of all. 

"Yes, I know you do. There isn't one of you that hasn't always been 
very kind to me ; and I want to give you something that, when you look 
at, you shall always remember me. I 'm going to give all of you a curl of 
my hair ; and, when you look at it, think that I loved you and am gone to 
heaven, and that I want to see you all there." 

It was impossible to describe the scene, as, with tears and sobs, they 
gathered round the little creature, and took from her hands what seemed 
to them a last mark of her love. They fell on their knees ; they sobbed, 
and prayed, and kissed the hem of her garment; and the elder ones 
poured forth words of endearment, mingled in prayers and blessings, after 
the manner of their susceptible race. 

As each one took their gift. Miss Ophelia, who was apprehensive for the 
effect of all this excitement on her little patient, signed to each one to pass 
out of the apartment. 

At last, all were gone but Tom and Mammy. 

" Here, Uncle Tom," said Eva, " is a beautiful one for you. Oh, I am 
so happy, Uncle Tom, to" think I shall see you in heaven, for I 'm sure I 
shall ; and Mammy — dear, good, kind Mammy ! " she said, fondly throw- 
ing her arms around her old nurse, " I know you '11 be there, too." 

" Oh, Miss Eva, don't see how I can live without ye, no how ! " said the 
faithful creature. " Tears like it 's just taking everything oflf the place to 
oncet ! " and Mammy gave way to a passion of grief. 

Miss Ophelia pushed her and Tom gently from the apartment, and 


thought they were all gone; but, as she turned, Topsy was standing 

" Where did you start from ? " she said suddenly. 

" I was here," said Topsy, wiping the tears from her eyes. "Oh, Miss Eva, 
I 've been a bad girl ; but won't you give me one, too ? " 

" Yes, poor Topsy ! to be sure I will. There — every time you look at 
that, think that I love you, and wanted you to be a good girl ! " 

" Oh, Miss Eva, I is tryin' ! " said Topsy earnestly ; " but. Lor', it 's 
so hard to be good ! 'Pears like I an't used to it, noways ! " 

" Jesus knows it, Topsy ; he is sorry for you ; he will help you." 
Topsy, with her eyes hid in her apron, was silently passed from the 
apartment by Miss Ophelia j but, as she went, she hid the precious curl in 
her bosom. 

All being gone. Miss Ophelia shut the door. That worthy lady had 
wiped away many tears of her own during the scene, but concern for the 
consequence of such an excitement to her young charge was uppermost in 
her mind. 

St. Clare had been sitting, during the whole time, with his hand shading 
his eyes, in the same attitude. When they were all gone, he sat so still. 

" Papa ! " said Eva gently, laying her hand on his. 

He gave a sudden start and shiver, but made no answer. 

" Dear papa ! " said Eva. 

" I cannot" said St. Clare, rising, " I cannot have it so ! The Almighty 
hath dealt very bitterly with me ! " and St. Clare pronounced these words 
with a bitter emphasis indeed. 

"Augustine! has not God a right to do what he will with his own?" 
said Miss Ophelia. 

" Perhaps so ; but that doesn't make it any easier to bear," said he, with 
a dry, hard, tearless manner, as he turned away. 

" Papa, you break my heart ! " said Eva, rising and throwing herself into 
his arms ; " you must not feel so ! " and the child sobbed and wept with a 
violence which alarmed them all, and turned her father's thoughts at once 
to another channel. 

" There, Eva — there, dearest ! Hush ! hush ! I was wrong ; I was 
wicked. I will feel any way, do any way — only don't distress yourself; 
don't sob so. I will be resigned ; I was wicked to speak as I did." 

Eva soon lay like a wearied dove in her father's arms ; and he, bending 
over her, soothed her by every tender word he could think of. 

Marie rose and threw herself out of the apartment into her own, when 
she fell into violent hysterics. 

" You didn't give me a curl, Eva," said her father, smiling sadly. 

" They are all yours, papa," said she smiling — " yours and mamma's ; 
and you must give dear aunty as many as she wants. I only gave them to 
our poor people myself, because you know, papa, they might be forgotten 
when I am gone, and because I hoped it might help them remember. . . . 
You are a Christian, are you not, papa ? " said Eva doubtfully. 

" Why do you ask me ? " 

"I don't know. You are so good, I don't see how you can help it." 

" What is being a Christian, Eva ? " 

" Loving Christ most of all," said Eva. 

"Do you, Eva?" 

" Certainly I do." 

" You never saw him," said St. Clare. 


"That makes no difference," said Eva. "I believe him, and in a few 
days I shall see him " ; and the young face grew fervent, radiant with joy. 

St. Clare said no more. It was a feeling which he had seen before in his 
mother ; but no chord within vibrated to it. 

Eva after this declined rapidly ; there was no more any doubt of the 
event ; the fondest hope could not be blinded. Her beautiful room was 
avowedly a sick room ; and Miss Ophelia day and night performed the 
duties of a nurse — and never did her friends appreciate her value more 
than in that capacity. With so well-trained a hand and eye, such perfect 
adroitness and practice in every art that could promote neatness and 
comfort, and keep out of sight every disagreeable incident of sickness — 
with such a perfect sense of time, such a clear, untroubled head, such an 
exact accuracy in remembering every prescription and direction of the 
doctors — she was everything to him. They who had shrugged their shoulders 
at her little peculiarities and setnesses, so unlike the careless freedom of 
southern manners, acknowledged that now she was the exact person that 
was wanted. 

Uncle Tom was much in Eva's room. The child suffered much from 
nervous restlessness, and it was a relief to her to be carried ; and it was 
Tom's greatest delight to carry her little frail form in his arms, resting on 
a pillow, now up and down her room, now out into the verandah ; and 
when the fresh sea-breezes blew from the lake, and the child felt freshest 
in the morning, he would sometimes walk with her under the orange-trees 
in the garden, or, sitting down in some of their old seats, sing to her their 
favourite old hymns. 

Her father often did the same thing ; but his frame was slighter, and, 
when he was weary, Eva would say to him — 

" Oh, papa, let Tom take me. Poor fellow ! it pleases him ; and you 
know it 's all he can do now, and he wants to do something ! " 

" So do I, Eva," said her father. 

*' Well, papa, you can do everything, and are everything to me. You 
read to me — you sit up nights — and Tom has only this one thing, and his 
singing ; and I know, too, he does it easier than you can. He carries me 
so strong ! " 

The desire to do something was not confined to Tom. Every servant 
in the establishment showed the same feeling, and, in their way, did what 
they could. 

Poor Mammy's heart yearned towards her darling ; but she found no 
opportunity, night or day, as Marie declared that the state of her mind 
was such, it was impossible for her to rest ; and, of course, it was against 
her principles to let any one else rest. Twenty times in a night, Mammy 
would be roused to rub her feet, to bathe her head, to find her pocket- 
handkerchief, to see what the noise was in Eva's room, to let down a 
curtain because it was too light, or to put it up because it was too dark ; 
and in the day-time, when she longed to have some share in the nursing of 
her pet, Marie seemed unusually ingenious in keeping her busy, anywhere 
and everywhere, all over- the house, or about her own person ; so that 
stolen interviews, and momentary glimpses, were all she could obtain. 

" I feel it my duty to be particularly careful of myself now," she would 
say, " feeble as I am, and with the whole care and nursing of that dear 
child upon me." 

" Indeed, my dear," said St. Clare, " I thought our cousin relieved you 
of that." 


" You talk like a man, St. Clare — ^just as if a mother could be relieved 
of the care of a child in that state ; but, then, it 's all alike — no one ever 
knows what I feel ! I can't throw off things as you do." 

St. Clare smiled. You must excuse him, he couldn't help it — for St. 
Clare could smile yet. For so bright and placid was the farewell voyage 
of the little spirit — by such sweet and fragrant breezes was the small bark 
borne towards the heavenly shores — that it was impossible to realise that 
it was death that was approaching. The child felt no pain — only a tranquil, 
soft weakness, daily, and almost insensibly, increasing; and she was so 
beautiful, so loving, so trustful, so happy, that one could not resist the 
soothing influence of that air of innocence and peace which seemed to 
breathe around her. St. Clare found a strange calm coming over him. 
It was not hope — that was impossible ; it was not resignation ; it was only 
a calm resting in the present, which seemed so beautiful that he wished to 
think of no future. It was like that hush of spirit Avhich we feel amid the 
bright, mild woods of autumn, when the bright hectic flush is on the trees, 
and the last lingering flowers by the brook ; and we joy in it all the more 
because we know that soon it will all pass away. 

The friend who knew most of Eva's own imaginings and foreshadowings 
was her faithful bearer, Tom. To him she said what she would not disturb 
her father by saying. To him she imparted those mysterious intimations 
which the soul feels, as the cords begin to unbind, ere it leaves its clay for 

Tom, at last, would not sleep in his room, but lay all night in the outer 
verandah, ready to rouse at every call. 

"Uncle Tom, what alive have you taken to sleeping anywhere and 
everywhere, like a dog, for?" said Miss Ophelia. "I thought you was 
one of the orderly sort, that liked to lie in bed in a Christian way." 

" I do, Miss Feely," said Tom mysteriously. " I do, but now " 

"Well, what now?" 

" We mustn't speak loud. Mas'r St. Clare won't hear on 't ; but. Miss 
Feely, you know there must be somebody watchin' for the bridegroom." 

" What do you mean, Tom ? " 

"You know it says in Scripture, 'At midnight there was a great cry 
made. Behold, the bridegroom cometh.' That 's what I 'm spectin' now, 
every night, Miss Feely; and I couldn't sleep out o' hearin', no ways." 

" Why, Uncle Tom, what makes you think so ? " 

" Miss Eva, she talks to me. The Lord, he sends his messenger in the 
soul. I must be thar, Miss Feely; for when that ar blessed child goes into 
the kingdom, they '11 open the door so wide, we '11 all get a look in at the 
glory. Miss Feely." 

"Uncle Tom, did Miss Eva say she felt more unwell than usual 

" No ; but she telled me this morning she was coming nearer — thar 's 
them that tells it to the child. Miss Feely. It's the angels — 'it's the 
trumpet-sound afore the break o' day,' " said Tom, quoting from a favourite 

This dialogue passed between Miss Ophelia and Tom, between ten and 
eleven one evening, after her arrangements had all been made for the night, 
when, on going to bolt her outer door, she found Tom stretched along by 
it, in the outer verandah. 

She was not nervous or impressible ; but the solemn, heartfelt manner 
Struck her. Eva had been unusually bright and cheerful that afternoon, 


and had sat raised in her bed, and looked over all her litde trinkets and 
precious things, and designated the friends to whom she would have them 
given ; and her manner was more animated, and her voice more natural, 
than they had known it for weeks. Her father had been in in the evening, 
and had said that Eva appeared more like her former self than ever she 
had done since her sickness; and when he kissed her for the night, he said 
to Miss Ophelia, "Cousin, we may keep her with us, after all; she is certainly 
better " ; and he had retired with a lighter heart in his bosom than he had 
had there for weeks. 

But at midnight — strange, mystic hour, when the veil between the frail 
present and the eternal future grows thin — then came the messenger ! 

There was a sound in that chamber, first of one who stepped quickly. 
It was Miss Ophelia, who had resolved to sit up all night with her little 
charge, and who, at the turn of the night, had discerned what experienced 
nurses significantly call "a change." The outer door was quickly opened, 
and Tom, who was watching outside, was on the alert in a moment. 

" Go for the doctor, Tom ! lose not a moment ! " said Miss Ophelia ; 
and, stepping across the room, she rapped at St. Clare's door. 

" Cousin," she said, " I wish you would come." 

Those words fell on his heart like clods upon a coffin. Why did they ? 
He was up and in the room in an instant, and bending over Eva, who 
still slept. 

What was it he saw that made his heart stand still ? Why was no word 
spoken between the two ? Thou canst say, who hast seen that same 
expression on the face dearest to thee — that look, indescribable, hopeless, 
unmistakable, that says to thee that thy beloved is no longer thine. 

On the face of the child, however, there was no ghastly imprint — only a 
high and almost sublime expression — the overshadowing presence of 
spiritual natures, the dawning of immortal life in that childish soul. 

They stood there so still, gazing upon her, that even the ticking of the 
watch seemed too loud. In a few moments Tom returned with the doctor. 
He entered, gave one look, and stood silent as the rest. 

" When did this change take place ? " said he, in a low whisper, to Miss 

" About the turn of the night," was the reply. 

Marie, roused by the entrance of the doctor, appeared hurriedly from 
the next room. 

" Augustine ! Cousin ! — Oh ! — what ? " she hurriedly began. 

" Hush ! " said St. Clare hoarsely ; " she is dyittg/" 

Mammy heard the words, and flew to awaken the servants. The house 
was soon roused — lights were seen, footsteps heard, anxious faces thronged 
the verandah, and looked tearfully through the glass doors ; but St. Clare 
heard and said nothing — he saw only ihat look on the face of the little 

" Oh, if she would only wake, and speak once more ! " he said ; and, 
stooping over her, he spoke in her ear — " Eva, darling ! " 

The large blue eyes unclosed — a smile passed over her face ; she tried 
to raise her head, and to speak. 

" Do you know me, Eva ? " 

" Dear papa !" said the child, with a last effort, throwing her arms about 
his neck. In a moment they dropped again ; and, as St. Clare raised his 
head, he saw a spasm of mortal agony pass over the face — she struggled 
for breath, and threw up her little hands. 


" O God, this is dreadful ! " he said, turning away in agony, and 
wringing Tom's hand, scarce conscious of what he was doing. "O 
Tom, my boy, it is killing me ! " 

Tom had his master's hands between his own ; and, with tears stream- 
ing down his dark cheeks, looked up for help where he had always been 
used to look. 

" Pray that this may be cut short ! " said St. Clare ; " this wrings my 
heart ! " 

" Oh, bless the Lord ! it 's over — it 's over, dear master," said Tom ; 
"look at her!" 

The child lay panting on her pillows, as one exhausted — the large, clear 
eyes rolled up and fixed. Ah, what said those eyes that spoke so much 
of heaven? Earth was passed, and earthly pain; but so solemn, so 
mysterious, was the triumphant brightness of that face, that it checked 
even the sobs of sorrow. They pressed around her in breathless stillness. 

" Eva ! " said St. Clare, gently. 

She did not hear. 

" O Eva, tell us what you see ! What is it ? " said her father. 

A bright, a glorious smile passed over her face, and she said, brokenly, 
" Oh ! love — joy — peace ! " gave one sigh, and passed from death unto 
life ! 

" Farewell, beloved child ! the bright, eternal doors have closed after 
thee; we shall see thy sweet face no more. Oh, woe for them who 
watched thy entrance into heaven, when they wake and find only the cold, 
grey sky of daily life, and thou gone for ever ! " 


"this is the last of earth." 

The statuettes and pictures in Eva's room were shrouded in white 
napkins, and only hushed breathings and muffled footfalls were heard 
there, and the light stole in solemnly through windows partially darkened 
by closed blinds. 

The bed was draped in white ; and there, beneath the drooping angel- 
figure, lay a little sleeping form — sleeping never to waken ! 

There she lay, robed in one of the simple white dresses she had been 
wont to wear when living; the rose-coloured light through the curtains 
cast over the icy coldness of death a warm glow. The heavy eyelashes 
drooped softly on the pure cheek; the head was turned a little to one 
side, as if in natural sleep ; but there was diffused over every lineament of 
the face that high celestial expression, that mingling of rapture and repose, 
which showed it was no earthly or temporary sleep, but the long, sacred 
rest which " he giveth to his beloved." 

There is no death to such as thou, dear Eva ! neither darkness nor 
shadow of death; only such a bright fading as when the morning star 
fades in the golden dawn. Thine is the victory without the battle — the 
crown without the conflict. 

So did St. Clare think, as, with folded arms, he stood there gazing. 
Ah ! who shall say what he did think ? for, from that hour that voices had 
said, in the dying chamber, " She is gone," it had been all a dreary mist, a 


heavy " dimness of anguish." He had heard voices around him ; he had 
had questions asked, and answered them ; they had asked him when he 
would have the funeral, and where they should lay her; and he had 
answered impatiently, that he cared not. 

Adolph and Rose had arranged the chamber. Volatile, fickle, and 
childish as they generally were, they were soft-hearted and full of feeling ; 
and while Miss Ophelia presided over the general details of order and 
neatness, it was their hands that added those soft, poetic touches to the 
arrangements, that took from the death-room the grim and ghastly air 
which too often marks a New England funeral. 

There were still flowers on the shelves — all white, delicate, and fragrant, 
with graceful, drooping leaves. Eva's little table, covered with white, bore 
on it her favourite vase, with a single white moss rosebud in it. The folds 
of the drapery, the fall of the curtains, had been arranged and re-arranged 
by Adolph and Rose, with that nicety of eye which characterises their 
race. Even now, while St. Clare stood there thinking, little Rose tripped 
softly into the chamber with a basket of white flowers. She stepped back 
when she saw St. Clare, and stopped respectfully ; but, seeing that he did 
not observe her, she came forward to place them around the dead. St. 
Clare saw her as in a dream, while she placed in the small hands a fair 
cape jessamine, and, with admirable taste, disposed other flowers around 
the couch. 

The door opened again, and Topsy, her eyes swelled with crying, 
appeared, holding something under her apron. Rose made a quick, 
forbidding gesture ; but she took a step into the room. 

" You must go out ! " said Rose, in a sharp, positive whisper ; '■^you 
haven't any business here ! " 

" Oh, do let me ! I brought a flower — such a pretty one !" said Topsy, 
holding up a half-blown tea rosebud. " Do let me put just one there." 

" Get along ! " said Rose, more decidedly. 

" Let her stay ! " said St. Clare, suddenly stamping his foot. " She 
shall come." 

Rose suddenly retreated, and Topsy came forward and laid her offering 
at the feet of the corpse ; then suddenly, with a wild and bitter cry, 
she threw herself on the floor alongside the bed, and wept and moaned 

Miss OpheHa hastened into ttfi*¥8om, and tried to raise and silence 
her ; but in vain. 

" O Miss Eva ! O Miss Eva ! I wish I 'se dead, too — I do ! " 

There was a piercing wildness in the cry ; the blood flushed into St 
Clare's white, marble-like face, and the first tears he had shed since Eva 
died stood in his eyes. 

*' Get up, child," said Miss Ophelia, in a softened voice ; " don't cry so. 
Miss Eva is gone to heaven ; she is an angel." 

" But I can't see her ! " said Topsy. " I never shall see her ! " and she 
sobbed again. 

They all stood a moiTient in silence. 

" She said she loved me," said Topsy — " she did ! Oh, dear ! oh, dear ! 
there an't nobody left now — there an't ! " 

"That's true enough," said St. Clare; "but do," he said to Miss 
Ophelia, " see if you can't comfort the poor creature." 

"I jist wish I hadn't never been born," said Topsy. " I didn't wan*^ *■ 
be born, no ways ! and I don't see no use on't." 


Miss Ophelia raised her gently but firmly, and took her from the room ; 
but, as she did so, some tears fell from her eyes. 

" Topsy, you poor child," she said, as she led her into her room, " don't 
give up ! / can love you, though I am not like that dear little child. I 
hope I 've learnt something of the love of Christ from her, I can love 
you, I do ; and I '11 try to help you to grow up a good Christian girl." 

Miss Ophelia's voice was more than her words, and more than that 
were the honest tears that fell down her face. From that hour she 
acquired an influence over the mind of the destitute child that she 
never lost. 

" O my Eva, whose little hour on earth did so much good," thought St. 
Clare, " what account have I to give for my long years ? " 

There were, for a while, soft whisperings and footfalls in the chamber, 
as one after another stole in to look at the dead ; and then came the little 
coffin ; and then there was a funeral, and carriages drove to the door, and 
strangers came and were seated ; and there were white scarfs and ribbons, 
and crape bands, and mourners dressed in black crape ; and there were 
words read from the Bible, and prayers offered ; and St. Clare lived, and 
walked, and moved as one v/ho had shed every tear. To the last he saw 
only one thing, that golden head in the coffin ; but then he saw the cloth 
spread over it, the lid of the coffin closed ; and he walked, when he was 
put beside the others, down to a little place at the bottom of the garden, 
and there, by the mossy seat where she and Tom had talked, and sung, 
and read so often, was the little grave. St. Clare stood beside it — looked 
vacantly down ; he saw them lower the little coffin ; he heard, dimly, the 
solemn words, " I am the Resurrection and the Life ; he that believeth in 
me, though he were dead, yet shall he live " ; and, as the earth was cast in 
and filled up the little grave, he could not realise that it was his Eva that 
they were hiding from his sight. 

Nor was it ! not Eva, but only the frail seed of that bright, immortal 
form with which she shall yet come forth, in the day of the Lord Jesus ! 

And then all were gone, and the mourners went back to the place 
which should know her no more ; and Marie's room was darkened, and 
she lay on the bed, sobbing and moaning in uncontrollable grief, and 
calling every moment for the attentions of all her servants. Of course, 
they had no time to cry — why should they? The grief was her grief, 
and she was fully convinced that nobody on earth did, could, or would 
feel it as she did. 

" St. Clare did not shed a tear," she said ; " he didn't sympathise with 
her; it was perfectly wonderful to think how hard-hearted and unfeeling 
he was, when he must know how she suffered." 

So much are people the slave of their eye and ear, that many of the 
servants really thought that missis was the principal sufferer in the case, 
especially as Marie began to have hysterical spasms, and sent for the 
doctor, and at last declared herself dying; and, in the running and 
scampering, and bringing up hot bottles, and heating of flannels, and 
chafing and fussing that ensued, there was quite a diversion. 

Tom, however, had a feeling at his own heart that drew him to his 
master. He followed him wherever he walked, wistfully and sadly; 
and when he saw him sitting, so pale and quiet, in Eva's room, holding 
before his eyes her little open Bible, though seeing no letter or word of 
what was in it, there was more sorrow to Tom in that still, fixed, tearless 
eye, than in all Marie's moans and lamentations. 


In a few days the St. Clare family were back again in the city; 
Augustine with the restlessness of grief, longing for another scene to 
change the current of his thoughts. So they left the house and garden, 
with its little grave, and came back to New Orleans, and St. Clare walked 
the streets busily, and strove to fill up the chasm in his heart with hurry 
and bustle, and change of place ; and people who saw him in the street, 
or met him at the cafe, knew of his loss only by the weed on his hat ; for 
there he was, smiling and talking, and reading the newspaper, and specu- 
lating on politics, and attending to business matters ; and who could see 
that all this smiling outside was but a hollow shell over a heart that was a 
dark and silent sepulchre ? 

" Mr. St. Clare is a singular man," said Marie to Miss Ophelia, in a 
complaining tone. " I used to think, if there was anything in the world 
he did love, it was our dear little Eva ; but he seems to be forgetting her 
very easily. I cannot ever get him to talk about her. I really did think 
he would show more feeling." 

"Still waters run deepest, they used to tell me," said Miss Ophelia 

"Oh, I don't believe in such things; it's all talk. If people have 
feeling, they will show it — they can't help it; but then it's a great mis- 
fortune to have feeling. I 'd rather have been made like St. Clare. My 
feelings prey upon me so ! " 

" Sure, missis, Mas'r St. Clare is gettin' thin as a shader. They say he 
don't never eat nothin'," said Mammy. "I know he don't forget Miss 
Eva; I know there couldn't nobody — dear, little, blessed cretur' !" she 
added, wiping her eyes. 

" Well, at all events, he has no consideration for me," said Marie ; " he 
hasn't spoken one word of sympathy, and he must know how much more 
a mother feels than any man can." 

" The heart knoweth its own bitterness," said Miss Ophelia gravely. 

"That's just what I think. I know just what I feel — nobody else 
seems to. Eva used to, but she 's gone ! " and Marie lay back on her 
lounge, and began to sob disconsolately. 

Marie was one of those unfortunately constituted mortals, in whose 
eyes whatever is lost and gone assumes a value which it never had in 
possession. Whatever she had, she seemed to survey only to pick flaws 
in it ; but, once fairly away, there was no end to her valuation of it. 

While this conversation was taking place in the parlour, another was 
going on in St. Clare's library. 

Tom, who was always uneasily following his master about, had seen him 
go to his library, some hours before ; and, after vainly waiting for him to 
come out, determined, at last, to make an errand in. He entered softly. 
St. Clare lay on his lounge, at the further end of the room. He was 
lying on his face, with Eva's Bible open before him, at a little distance. 
Tom walked up, and stood by the sofa. He hesitated ; and, while he was 
hesitating, St. Clare suddenly raised himself up. The honest face, so 
full of grief, and with such an imploring expression of affection and 
sympathy, struck his master. He laid his hand on Tom's, and bowed 
down his forehead on it. 

" Oh, Tom, my boy, the whole world is as empty as an egg-shell." 

"I know it, mas'r — I know it," said Tom. "But, oh, if mas'r could 
only look up — up where our dear Miss Eva is — up to the dear Lord 


" Ah, Tom ! I do look up ; but the trouble is, I don't see anything 
when I do. I wish I could." 

Tom sighed heavily. 

" It seems to be given to children, and poor, honest fellows like you, to 
see what we can't," said St. Clare. " How comes it?" 

"Thou hast 'hid from the wise and prudent, and revealed unto babes,'" 
murmured Tom ; "'even so. Father, for it seemed good in thy sight.'" 

"Tom, I don't believe — I can't believe; I've got the habit of 
doubting," said St. Clare. "I want to believe this Bible, and I can't." 

" Dear mas'r, pray to the good Lord — ' Lord, I believe ; help thou my 

"Who knows anything about anything?" said St. Clare, his eyes 
wandering dreamily, and speaking to himself. "Was all that beautiful 
love and faith only one of the ever-shifting phases of human feeling, 
having nothing real to rest on, passing away with the little breath ? And 
is there no more Eva — no heaven — no Christ — nothing?" 

" Oh, dear mas'r, there is ! I know it ; I 'm sure of it," said Tom, 
falling on his knees. "Do, do, dear mas'r, believe it!" 

" How do you know there 's any Christ, Tom ? You never saw the Lord." 

"Felt him in my soul, mas'r — feel him now ! O mas'r, when I was sold 
away from my old woman and the children, I was jest a'most broke up. 
I felt as if there warn't nothin' left ; and then the good Lord, he stood by 
me, and he says, 'Fear not, Tom'; and he brings light and joy into a 
poor feller's soul — makes all peace ; and I 's so happy, and loves every- 
body, and feels willin' jest to be the Lord's, and have the Lord's will 
done, and be jest where the Lord wants to put me. I know it couldn't 
come from me, 'cause I 's a poor, complainin' cretur ; it comes from the 
Lord ; and I know he 's willin' to do for mas'r." 

Tom spoke with fast-running tears and choking voice. St. Clare leaned 
his head on his shoulder, and wrung the hard, faithful, black hand. 

" Tom, you love me," he said. 

"I's willin' to lay down my life, this blessed day, to see mas'r a 

"Poor, foolish boy!" said St. Clare, half-raising himself. "I'm not 
worthy the love of one good, honest heart, like yours." 

" Oh, mas'r, dere 's more than me loves you — the blessed Lord Jesus 
loves you." 

"How do you know that, Tom?" said St. Clare. 

" Feels it in my soul. Oh mas'r ! ' the love of Christ, that passeth 

"Singular!" said St. Clare, turning away, "that the story of a man that 
lived and died eighteen hundred years ago can affect people so yet. But 
he was no man," he added suddenly. " No man ever had such long and 
living power ! Oh, that I could believe what my mother taught me, and 
pray as I did when I was a boy !" 

" If mas'r pleases," said Tom, " Miss Eva used to read this so beauti- 
fully. I wish mas'r 'd be so good as read it. Don't get no readin' hardly, 
now Miss Eva 's gone." 

The chapter was the eleventh of John — the touching account of the 
raising of Lazarus. St. Clare read it aloud, often pausing to wrestle down 
feelings which were aroused by the pathos of the story. Tom knelt 
before him, with clasped hands, and with an absorbed expression of love, 
trust, adoration, on his quiet face. 


" Tom," said his master, " this is all real to you ! " 

" I can jest fairly see it, mas'r," said Tom. 

" I wish I had your eyes, Tom." 

" I wish to the dear Lord mas'r had ! " 

"But, Tom, you know that I have a great deal more knowledge than 
you. What if I should tell you that I don't believe this Bible?" 

"Oh, mas'r!" said Tom, holding up his hands, with a deprecating 

"Wouldn't it shake your faith some, Tom?" 

" Not a grain," said Tom. 

" Why, Tom, you must know I know the most." 

"Oh, mas'r, haven't you jest read how he hides from the wise and 
prudent, and reveals unto babes ? But mas'r wasn't in earnest, for sartin, 
now?" said Tom anxiously. 

" No, Tom, I was not. I don't disbelieve, and I think there is reason 
to believe; and still I don't. It's a troublesome bad habit I've got, 

" If mas'r would only pray !" 

" How do you know I don't, Tom?" 

"Does mas'r?" 

" I would, Tom, if there was anybody there when I pray ; but it 's all 
speaking unto nothing when I do. But come, Tom, you pray, now, and 
show me how." 

Tom's heart was full ; he poured it out in prayer, like waters that have 
been long suppressed. One thing was plain enough : Tom thought there 
was somebody to hear, whether there were or not. In fact, St. Clare felt 
himself borne, on the tide of his faith and feeling, almost to the gates of 
that heaven he seemed so vividly to conceive. It seemed to bring him 
nearer to Eva. 

" Thank you, my boy," said St. Clare, when Tom rose. " I like to 
hear you, Tom ; but go, now, and leave me alone ; some other time I '11 
talk more." 

Tom silently left the room. 



Week after week glided away in the St. Clare mansion, and the waves 
of life settled back to their usual flow where that little bark had gone 
down. For how imperiously, how coolly, in disregard of all one's feeling, 
does the hard, cold, uninteresting course of daily realities move on ! 
Still must we eat, and drink, and sleep, and wake again — still bargain, 
buy, sell, ask and answer questions — pursue, in short, a thousand shadows, 
though all interest in them be over ; the cold mechanical habit of living 
remaining, after all vital interest in it has fled. 

All the interests and hopes of St. Clare's life had unconsciously wound 
themselves around this child. It was for Eva that he had managed his 
property; it was for Eva that he had planned the disposal of his time; 
and, to do this and that for Eva — to buy, improve, alter, and arrange or 
dispose something for her — had been so long his habit, that now she was 
gone, there seemed nothing to be thought of, and nothing to be done. 


True, there was another life — a life which, once believed in, stands as a 
solemn, significant figure before the otherwise unmeaning ciphers of time, 
changing them to orders of mysterious, untold value. St. Clare knew this 
well ; and often, in many a weary hour, he heard that slender, childish 
voice calling him to the skies, and saw that little hand pointing to him the 
way of life; but a heavy lethargy of sorrow lay on him — he could not 
rise. He had one of those natures which could better and more clearly 
conceive of religious things from its own perceptions and instincts than 
many a matter-of-fact and practical Christian. The gift to appreciate and 
the sense to feel the finer shades and relations of moral things, often 
seems an attribute of those whose whole life shows a careless disregard 
of them. Hence Moore, Byron, Goethe, often speak words more wisely 
descriptive of the true religious sentiment than another man whose 
whole life is governed by it. In such minds, disregard of religion is 
a more fearful treason — a more deadly sin. 

St. Clare had never pretended to govern himself by any religious 
obligation ; and a certain fineness of nature gave him such an instinctive 
view of the extent of the requirements of Christianity, that he shrank, 
by anticipation, from what he felt would be the exactions of his own 
conscience, if he once did resolve to assume them. For, so inconsistent 
is human nature, especially in the ideal, that not to undertake a thing at 
all seems better than to undertake and come short. 

Still, St. Clare was in many respects another man. He read his little 
Eva's Bible seriously and honestly ; he thought more soberly and practi- 
cally of his relations to his servants — enough to make him extremely 
dissatisfied with both his past and present course ; and one thing he did, 
soon after his return to New Orleans, and that was to commence the legal 
steps necessary to Tom's emancipation, which was to be perfected as soon 
as he could get through the necessary foi'malities. Meanwhile, he attached 
himself to Tom more and more, ev^,^''day. In all the wide world, there 
was nothing that seemed to ■ ,.ijlnd him so much of Eva; and he 
would insist on keeping him constantly about him, and, fastidious and 
unapproachable as he was with regard to his deeper feelings, he almost 
thought aloud to Tom. Nor would anyone have wondered at it, who had 
seen the expression of affection and devotion with which Tom continually 
followed his young master. 

" Well, Tom," said St. Clare, the day after he had commenced the legal 
formalities for his enfranchisement, " I 'm going to make a free man of 
you ; so, have your trunk packed, and get ready to set out for Kentuck." 

The sudden light of joy that shone in Tom's face as he raised his 
hands to heaven, his emphatic " Bless the Lord ! " rather discomposed 
St. Clare ; he did not like it that Tom should be so ready to leave him. 

" You haven't had such very bad times here, that you need be in such 
a rapture, Tom," he said drily. 

" No, no, mas'r ! 't an't that — it 's bein' a free man I That 's what I 'm 
joyin' for." 

" Why, Tom, don't you think, for your own part, you 've been better off 
than to be free ? " 

" No, indeed, Mas'r St. Clare ! " said Tom, with a flash of energy. " No, 
indeed ! " 

"Why, Tom, you couldn't possibly have earned, by your work, such 
clothes and such living as I have given you." 

" Knows all that, Mas'r St. Clare ; mas'r been too good ; but, mas'r, I 'd 


rather have poor clothes, poor house, poor everything, and have 'em mine^ 
than have the best, and have 'em any man's else ! I had so^ mas'r ; I 
thinks it 's nature, mas'r ! " 

" I suppose so, Tom ; and you '11 be going off and leaving me, in a 
month or so," he added, rather discontentedly. "Though, why you 
shouldn't, no mortal knows," he said, in a gayer tone ; and, getting up, 
he began to walk the floor. 

" Not while mas'r is in trouble," said Tom. " I '11 stay with mas'r as 
long as he wants me — so as I can be any use." 

" Not while I 'm in trouble, Tom ? " said St. Clare, looking sadly out of 
the window. " And when will my trouble be over ? " 

" When Mas'r St. Clare 's a Christian," said Tom. 

" And you really mean to stay by till that day comes ? " said St. Clare, 
half smiling, as he turned from the window, and laid his hand on Tom's 
shoulder. " Ah, Tom, you soft, silly boy ! I won't keep you till that day. 
Go home to your wife and children, and give my love to all." 

" I 's faith to believe that day will come," said Tom earnestly, and with 
tears in his eyes ; " the Lord has a work for mas'r." 

" A work, eh ! " said St. Clare ; " well, now, Tom, give me your views 
on what sort of a work it is ; let's hear." 

" Why, even a poor fellow like me has a work from the Lord ; and 
Mas'r St. Clare, that has larnin', and riches, and friends — how much he 
might do for the Lord ! " 

" Tom, you seem to think the Lord needs a great deal done for him," 
said St. Clare, smiling. 

" We does for the Lord when we does for his critturs," said Tom. 

" Good theology, Tom ; better than Dr. B preaches, I dare swear," 

said St. Clare. 

The conversation was here interrupted by the announcement of some 

Marie St. Clare felt the loss of Eva as deeply as she could feel anything ; 
and as she was a woman that had a great faculty of making everybody 
unhappy when she was, her immediate attendants had still stronger reasons 
to regret the loss of their young mistress, whose winning ways and gentle 
intercessions had so often been a shield to them from the tyrannical and 
selfish exactions of her mother. Poor old Mammy, in particular, whose 
heart, severed from all natural domestic ties, had consoled itself with this 
one beautiful being, was almost heart-broken. She cried day and night, 
and was, from excess of sorrow, less skilful and alert in her ministrations 
on her mistress than usual, which drew down a constant storm of invectives 
on her defenceless head. 

Miss Ophelia felt the loss ; but, in her good and honest heart, it bore 
fruit unto everlasting life. She was more softened, more gentle; and 
though equally assiduous in every duty, it was with a chastened and quiet 
air, as one who communed with her own heart not in vain. She was more 
diligent in teaching Topsy — taught her mainly from the Bible — did not 
any longer shrink from her touch, or manifest an ill-repressed disgust, 
because she felt none. She viewed her now through the softened medium 
that Eva's hand had first held before her eyes, and saw in her only an 
immortal creature, whom God had sent to be led by her to glory and 

Topsy did not become at once a saint; but the hfe and death of 
Eva did work a marked change in her. The callous indifference was 


gone ; there was now sensibility, hope, desire, and the striving for good — 
a strife irregular, interrupted, suspended oft, but yet renewed again. 

One day, when Topsy had been sent for by Miss Ophelia, she came, 
hastily thrusting something into her bosom. 

"What are you doing there, you limb? You've been stealing some- 
thing, I '11 be bound," said the imperious little Rosa, who had been sent 
to call her, seizing her, at the same time, roughly by the arm. 

" You go 'long. Miss Rosa ! " said Topsy, pulling from her ; " 't an't 
none o' your business ! " 

" None o' your sa'ce ! " said Rosa. " I saw you hiding something — I 
know yer tricks ! " and Rosa seized her arm, and tried to force her hand 
into her bosom, while Topsy, enraged, kicked and fought valiantly for 
what she considered her rights. 

The clamour and confusion of the battle drew Miss OpheHa and 
St. Clare both to the spot. 

" She 's been stealing ! " said Rosa. 

" I han't, neither ! " vociferated Topsy, sobbing with passion. 

" Give me that, whatever it is ! " said Miss Ophelia firmly. 

Topsy hesitated; but, on a second order, pulled out of her bosom a 
little parcel done up in the foot of one of her own old stockings. 

Miss Ophelia turned it out. There was a small book, which had been 
given to Topsy by Eva, containing a single verse of Scripture, arranged 
for every day in the year, and in a paper the curl of hair that she had 
given her on that memorable day when she had taken her last farewell. 

St. Clare was a good deal affected at the sight of it ; the little book had 
been rolled in a long strip of black crape, torn from the funeral weeds. 

" What did you wrap this round the book for ? " said St. Clare, holding 
up the crape. 

" 'Cause — 'cause — 'cause 't was Miss Eva's. Oh, don't take 'em away, 
please ! " she said ; and sitting flat down on the floor, and putting her 
apron over her head, she began to sob vehemently. 

It was a curious mixture of the pathetic and the ludicrous — the little 
old stocking — black crape — text book — fair soft curl — and Topsy's utter 

St. Clare smiled ; but there were tears in his eyes as he said — 

" Come, come — don't cry ; you shall have them ! " and putting them 
together, he threw them into her lap, and drew Miss Ophelia with him 
into the parlour. 

" I really think you can make something of that concern," he said, 
pointing with his thumb backward over his shoulder. " Any mind that 
is capable of a real sorrow is capable of good. You must try and do 
something with her." 

" The child has improved greatly," said Miss Ophelia. " I have great 
hopes of her; but, Augustine," she said, laying her hand on his arm, 
" one thing I want to ask ; whose is this child to be ? — yours or mine ? " 

"Why, I gave her to you ^'' said Augustine. 

" But not legally ; I want her to be mine legally," said Miss Ophelia. 

" Whew ! cousin," said Augustine. " What will the Abolition Society 
think? They'll have a day of fasting appointed for this backsliding, if 
you become a slaveholder ! " 

" Oh, nonsense ! I want her mine, that I may have a right to take her 
to the free States, and give her her liberty, that all I am trying to do be 
not undone." 


" Oh, cousin, what an awful ' doing evil that good may come ' ! I can't 
encourage it." 

" I don't want you to joke, but to reason," said Miss Ophelia. " There 
is no use in my trying to make this child a Christian child unless I save 
her from all the chances and reverses of slavery; and if you really are 
willing I should have her, I want you to give me a deed of gift, or some 
legal paper." 

" Well, well," said St. Clare, " I will " ; and he sat down, and unfolded 
a newspaper to read. 

" But I want it done now," said Miss Ophelia. 

" What 's your hurry ? " 

" Because now is the only time there ever is to do a thing in," said 
Miss Ophelia. "Come, now, here's paper, pen, and ink; just write a 

St. Clare, like most men of his class of mind, cordially hated the 
present tense of action generally ; and therefore he was considerably 
annoyed by Miss Ophelia's downrightness. 

" Why, what 's the matter ? " said he. " Can't you take my word ? One 
would think you had taken lessons of the Jews, coming at a fellow so ! " 

" I want to make sure of it," said Miss Ophelia. " You may die, or 
fail, and then Topsy be hustled off to auction, spite of all I can do." 

" Really, you are quite provident. Well, seeing I 'm in the hands of 
a Yankee, there is nothing for it but to concede " ; and St. Clare rapidly 
wrote off a deed of gift, which, as he was well versed in the forms of law, 
he could easily do, and signed his name to it in sprawling capitals, con- 
cluding by a tremendous flourish. 

" There, isn't that black and white, now, Miss Vermont ? " he said, as 
he handed it to her. 

"Good boy," said Miss Ophelia, smiUng. "But must it not be 
witnessed ? " 

"Oh, bother! — yes. Here," he said, opening the door into Marie's 
apartment, " Marie, cousin wants your autograph ; just put your name 
down here." 

" What 's this ? " said Marie, as she ran over the paper. " Ridiculous ! 
I thought cousin was too pious for such horrid things," she added, as she 
carelessly wrote her name ; " but if she has a fancy for that article, I 'm 
sure she 's welcome." 

" There now, she 's yours, body and soul," said St. Clare, handing the 

"No more mine now than she was before," said Miss Ophelia. 
" Nobody but God has a right to give her to me ; but I can protect her 

" Well, she 's yours by a fiction of law, then," said St. Clare, as he 
turned back into the parlour, and sat down to his paper. 

Miss Ophelia, who seldom sat much in Marie's company, followed him 
to the parlour, having first carefully laid away the paper. 

"Augustine," she said suddenly, as she sat knitting, "have you ever 
made any provision for your servants, in case of your death ? " 

" No," said St. Clare, as he read on. 

" Then all your indulgence to them may prove a great cruelty, by-and- 

St. Clare had often thought the same thing himself; but he answered 
negligently — 


" Well, I mean to make a provision, by-and-bye." 

" When ? " said Miss Ophelia. 

" Oh, one of these days." 

" What if you should die first ? " 

"Cousin, what 's the matter ? " said St. Clare, laying down his paper and 
looking at her. "Do you think I show symptoms of yellow fever or 
cholera, that you are making post-mortem arrangements with such zeal ? " 

" ' In the midst of life we are in death,' " said Miss Ophelia. 

St. Clare rose up, and, laying the paper down, carelessly walked to the 
door that stood open on the verandah, to put an end to a conversation 
that was not agreeable to him. Mechanically he repeated the last word 
again — " Death " — and, as he leaned against the railings and watched the 
sparkling water as it rose and fell in the fountain, and, as in a dim and 
dizzy haze, saw the flowers and trees and vases of the court, he repeated 
again the mystic word so common in every mouth, yet of such fearful 
power — " Death ! " " Strange that there should be such a word," he 
said, " and such a thing, and we ever forget it ; that one should be living, 
warm, and beautiful, full of hopes, desires, and wants one day, and the 
next be gone, utterly gone, and for ever ! " 

It was a warm, golden evening ; and, as he walked to the other end of 
the verandah, he saw Tom busily intent on his Bible, pointing, as he did 
so, with his finger to each successive word, and whispering them to him- 
self with an earnest air. 

"Want me to read to you, Tom?" said St. Clare, seating himself 
carelessly by him. 

" If mas'r pleases," said Tom gratefully \ " mas'r makes it so much 

St. Clare took the book and glanced at the place, and began reading 
one of the passages which Tom had designated by the heavy marks 
around it. It ran as follows : — 

" When the Son of man shall come in his glory, and all his holy angels 
with him, then shall he sit upon the throne of his glory : and before him 
shall be gathered all nations ; and he shall separate them one from 
another, as a shepherd divideth his sheep from the goats." St. Clare read 
on in an animated voice, till he came to the last of the verses. 

" Then shall the King say unto them on his left hand. Depart from me, 
ye cursed, into everlasting fire : for I was an hungered, and ye gave me 
no meat : I was thirsty, and ye gave me no drink : I was a stranger, and 
ye took me not in : naked, and ye clothed me not : I was sick, and in 
prison, and ye visited me not. Then shall they answer unto Him, Lord, 
when saw we thee an hungered, or athirst, or a stranger, or naked, or sick, 
or in prison, and did not minister unto thee? Then shall he say unto 
them, Inasmuch as ye did it not to one of the least of these my brethren, 
ye did it not to me." 

St. Clare seemed struck with this last passage, for he read it twice — the 
second time slowly, and as if he were revolving the words in his mind. 

" Tom," he said, " these folks that get such hard measure seem to have 
been doing just what I have — living good, easy, respectable lives ; and 
not troubling themselves to inquire how many of their brethren were 
hungry, or athirst, or sick, or in prison." 

Tom did not answer. 

St. Clare rose up and walked thoughtfully up and down the verandah, 
seeming to forget everything in his own thoughts; so absorbed was he, 


that Tom had to remind him twice that the tea-bell had rung, before he 
could get his attention. 

St. Clare was absent and thoughtful all tea-time. After tea, he and 
Marie and Miss Ophelia took possession of the parlour, almost in silence. 

Marie disposed herself on a lounge, under a silken mosquito curtain, 
and was soon sound asleep. Miss Ophelia silently busied herself with her 
knitting. St. Clare sat down to the piano, and began playing a soft and 
melancholy movement with the ^olian accompaniment. He seemed in 
a deep reverie, and to be soliloquising to himself by music. After a little, 
he opened one of the drawers, took out an old music-book whose leaves 
were yellow with age, and began turning it over. 

"There," he said to Miss Ophelia, "this was one of my mother's books, 
and here is her handwriting — come and look at it. She copied and 
arranged this from Mozart's Requiem." Miss Ophelia came accordingly. 

" It was something she used to sing often," said St. Clare. " I think 
I can hear her now." He struck a few majestic chords, and began singing 
that grand old Latin piece, the " Dies Irse." 

Tom, who was listening in the outer verandah, was drawn by the sound 
to the very door, where he stood earnestly. He did not understand the 
words, of course ; but the music and manner of singing appeared to affect 
him strongly, especially when St. Clare sang the more pathetic parts. 
Tom would have sympathised more heartily if he had known the meaning 
of the beautiful words : 

"Recordare, Jesu pie. 
Quod sum causa tuse vise, 
Ne me perdas ilia die ; 

Quaerens me sedisti lassus, 
Redemisti crucem passus, 
Tantus labor non sit cassus." * 

St. Clare threw a deep and pathetic expression into the words ; for the 
shadowy veil of years seemed drawn away, and he seemed to hear his 
mother's voice leading his. Voice and instrument seemed both living, 
and threw out with vivid sympathy those strains which the ethereal Mozart 
first conceived as his own dying requiem. 

When St. Clare had done singing, he sat leaning his head upon his 
hand a few moments, and then began walking up and down the floor. 

" What a sublime conception is that of the last judgment ! " said he. 
" A righting of all the wrongs of ages ! — a solving of all moral problems 
by an unanswerable wisdom ! It is, indeed, a wonderful image ! " 

" It is a fearful one to us," said Miss Ophelia. 

"It ought to be to me, I suppose," said St. Clare, stopping thought- 
fully. " I was reading to Tom, this afternoon, that chapter in Matthew 
that gives an account of it, and I have been quite struck with it. One 
should have expected some terrible enormities charged to those who are 
excluded from heaven, as the reason ; but no, they are condemned for not 
doing positive good, as if that included every possible harm." 

* These lines have been thus rather inadequately translated : 

"Think, O Jesus, for what reason 
Thou endured'st earth's spite and treason, 
Nor me lose, in that dread season ; 

Seeking me, thy worn feet hasted, 
On the cross thy soul death tasted— 
Let not all these toils be wasted." 


" Perhaps," said Miss Ophelia, " it is impossible for a person who does 
no good not to do harm." 

" And what," said St. Clare, speaking abstractedly, but with deep feeling, 
"what shall be said of one whose own heart, whose education, and the 
wants of society, have called in vain to some noble purpose; who has 
floated on, a dreamy, neutral spectator of the struggles, agonies, and 
wrongs of man, when he should have been a worker ? " 

" I should say," said Miss Ophelia, " that he ought to repent, and begin 

" Always practical and to the point ! " said St. Clare, his face breaking 
out into a smile. " You never leave me any time for general reflections, 
cousin; you always bring me short up against the actual present; you 
have a kind of eternal now always in your mind." 

" Now is all the time I have anything to do with," said Miss Ophelia. 

" Dear little Eva — poor child ! " said St. Clare, " she had set her little 
simple soul on a good work for me." 

It was the first time since Eva's death that he had ever said as many 
words as these of her, and he spoke now evidently repressing very strong 

" My view of Christianity is such," he added, " that I think no man can 
consistently profess it without throwing the whole weight of his being 
against this monstrous system of injustice that lies at the foundation of all 
our society ; and, if need be, sacrificing himself in the battle. That is, I 
mean that / could not be a Christian otherwise, though I have certainly 
had intercourse with a great many enlightened and Christian people who 
did no such thing ; and I confess that the apathy of religious people on 
this subject, their want of perception of wrongs that filled me with horror, 
have engendered in me more scepticism than any other thing." 

" If you knew all this," said Miss Ophelia, "why didn't you do it?" 

" Oh, because I have had only that kind of benevolence which consists 
in lying on a sofa, and cursing the church and clergy for not being martyrs 
and confessors. One can see, you know, very easily, how others ought to 
be martyrs." 

" Well, are you going to do differently now ? " said Miss Ophelia. 

"God only knows the future," said St. Clare. "I am braver than I 
was, because I have lost all ; and he who has nothing to lose can afford 
all risks." 

" And what are you going to do ? " 

" My duty, I hope, to the poor and lowly, as fast as I find it out," said 
St. Clare, "beginning with my own servants, for whom I have yet done 
nothing; and, perhaps, at some future day, it may appear that I can do 
something for a whole class; something to save my country from the 
disgrace of that false position in which she now stands before all civilized 

" Do you suppose it possible that a nation ever will voluntarily 
emancipate?" said Miss Ophelia. 

" I don't know," said St. Clare. " This is a day of great deeds. Heroism 
and disinterestedness are rising up, here and there, in the earth. The 
Hungarian nobles set free millions of serfs, at an immense pecuniary loss ; 
and perhaps among us may be found generous spirits, who do not estimate 
honour and justice by dollars and cents." 

" I hardly think so," said Miss Ophelia. 

" But suppose we should rise up to-morrow and emancipate, who would 


educate these millions, and teach them how to use their freedom ? They 
would never rise to do much among us. The fact is, we are too lazy and 
unpractical ourselves ever to give them much of an idea of that industry 
and energy which is necessary to form them into men. They will have to 
go north, where labour is the fashion — the universal custom ; and tell me, 
now, is there enough Christian philanthropy among your northern states 
to bear with the process of their education and elevation? You send 
thousands of dollars to foreign missions ; but could you endure to have 
the heathen sent into your towns and villages, and give your time, and 
thoughts, and money, to raise them to the Christian standard? That's 
what I want to know. If we emancipate, are you willing to educate? 
How many families in your town would take in a negro man and woman, 
teach them, bear with them, and seek to make them Christians? How 
many merchants would take Adolph, if I wanted to make him a clerk ; or 
mechanics, if I wanted him taught a trade ? If I wanted to put Jane and 
Rosa to a school, how many schools are there in the northern states that 
would take them in ? how many families that would board them ? and yet 
they are as white as many a woman, north or south. You see, cousin, I 
want justice done us. We are in a bad position. We are the more obvious 
oppressors of the negro ; but the unchristian prejudice of the north is an 
oppressor almost equally severe." 

" Well, cousin, I know it is so," said Miss Ophelia. " I know it was so 
with me, till I saw that it was my duty to overcome it ; but I trust I have 
overcome it, and I know there are many good people at the north who in 
this matter need only to be taught what their duty is to do it. It would 
certainly be a greater self-denial to receive heathen among us than to send 
missionaries to them ; but I think we would do it." 

" You would, I know," said St. Clare. " I 'd like to see anything you 
wouldn't do, if you thought it your duty ! " 

" Well, I 'm not uncommonly good," said Miss Ophelia. " Others 
would, if they saw things as I do. I intend to take Topsy home, when I 
go. I suppose our folks will wonder, at first; but I think they will be 
brought to see as I do. Besides, I know there are many people at the 
north who do exactly what you said." 

" Yes, but they are a minority ; and, if we should begin to emancipate 
to any extent, we should soon hear from you." 

Miss Ophelia did not reply. There was a pause of some moments ; and 
St. Clare's countenance was overcast by a sad, dreamy expression. 

" I don't know what makes me think of my mother so much to-night," 
he said. " I have a strange kind of feeling, as if she were near me. I 
keep thinking of things she used to say. Strange, what brings these past 
things so vividly back to us, sometimes ! " 

St. Clare walked up and down the room for some minutes more, and 
then said — 

" I believe I '11 go down street, a few moments, and hear the news 

He took his hat, and passed out. 

Tom followed him to the passage, out of the court, and asked if he 
should attend him. 

" No, my boy," said St. Clare. " I shall be back in an hour." 

Tom sat down in the verandah. It was a beautiful moonlight evening, 
and he sat watching the rising and falling spray of the fountain, and listen- 
ing to its mtirmur. Tom tt^bliight of his hD'me, and that he should soon 


be a free man, and able to return to it at will. He thought how he should 
work to buy his wife and boys. He felt the muscles of his brawny arms 
with a sort of joy, as he thought they would soon belong to himself, and 
how much they could do to work out the freedom of his family. Then he 
thought of his noble young master, and, ever second to that, came to the 
habitual prayer that he had always offered for him ; and then his thoughts 
passed on to the beautiful Eva, whom he now thought of among the 
angels ; and he thought till he almost fancied that that bright face and 
golden hair were looking upon him, out of the spray of the fountain. 
And, so musing, he fell asleep, and dreamed he saw her coming bounding 
towards him, just as she used to come, with a wreath of jessamine in her 
hair, her cheeks bright, and her eyes radiant with delight; but, as he 
looked, she seemed to rise from the ground ; her cheeks wore a paler hue 
— her eyes had a deep, divine radiance, a golden halo seemed around her 
head — and she vanished from his sight; and Tom was awakened by a loud 
knocking, and the sound of many voices at the gate. 

He hastened to undo it ; and, with smothered voices and heavy tread, 
came several men, bringing a body, wrapped in a cloak, and lying on a 
shutter. The light of the lamp fell full on the face ; and Tom gave a wild 
cry of amazement and despair, that rang through all the galleries, as the 
men advanced with their burden to the open parlour door, where Miss 
Ophelia still sat knitting. 

St. Clare had turned into a cafe, to look over an evening paper. As he 
was reading, an affray arose between two gentlemen in the room, who were 
both partially intoxicated. St. Clare and one or two others made an effort 
to separate them, and St. Clare received a fatal stab in the side with a 
bowie-knife, which he was attempting to wrest from one of them. 

The house was full of cries and lamentations, shrieks and screams, 
servants frantically tearing their hair, throwing themselves on the ground, 
or running distractedly about, lamenting. Tom and Miss Ophelia alone 
seemed to have any presence of mind ; for Marie was in strong hysteric 
convulsions. At Miss Ophelia's direction, one of the lounges in the 
parlour was hastily prepared, and the bleeding form laid upon it. St. 
Clare had fainted, through pain and loss of blood ; but as Miss Ophelia 
applied restoratives, he revived, opened his eyes, looked fixedly on them, 
looked earnestly around the room, his eyes travelling wistfully over every 
object, and finally they rested on his mother's picture. 

The physician now arrived, and made his examination. It was evident, 
from the expression of his face, that there was no hope; but he applied 
himself to dressing the wound, and he and Miss Ophelia and Tom 
proceeded composedly with this work, amid the lamentations and sobs 
and cries of the affrighted servants, who had clustered about the doors 
and windows of the verandah. 

" Now," said the physician, " we must turn all these creatures out ; 
all depends on his being kept quiet." 

St. Clare opened his eyes, and looked fixedly on the distressed bein^ 
whom Miss Ophelia and the doctor were trying to urge from the apart- 
ment. " Poor creatures ! " he said : and an expression of bitter self- 
reproach passed over his face. Adolph absolutely refused to go. Terror 
had deprived him of all presence of mind ; he threw himself along on the 
floor, and nothing could persuade him to rise. The rest yielded to Miss 
Ophelia's urgent representations, that their master's safety depended on 
their stillness and obedience. 


St. Clare could say but little; he lay with his eyes shut, but it was 
evident that he wrestled with bitter thoughts. After a while he laid 
his hand on Tom's, who was kneeling beside him, and said, '* Tom ! poor 
fellow ! » 

" What, mas'r ? " said Tom earnestly. 

" I am dying ! " said St. Clare, pressing his hand ; " pray ! " 

"If you would like a clergyman — " said the physician. 

St. Clare hastily shook his head, and said again to Tom, more 
earnestly, " Pray ! " 

And Tom did pray, with all his mind and strength, for the soul that was 
passing — the soul that seemed looking so steadily and mournfully from 
those large, melancholy blue eyes. It was literally prayer offered with 
strong crying and tears. 

When Tom ceased to speak, St. Clare reached out and took his hand, 
looking earnestly at him, but saying nothing. He closed his eyes, but still 
retained his hold ; for in the gates of eternity, the black hand and the 
white hold each other with an equal clasp. He murmured softly to 
himself, at broken intervals — 

" Recordare, Jesu pie — 

» * * * 

Ne me perdas — ilia die : 
Quserens me — sedisti lassus." 

It was evident that the words he had been singing that evening were 
passing through his mind — words of entreaty addressed to Infinite Pity. 
His lips moved at intervals, as parts of the hymn fell brokenly from 

" His mind is wandering," said the doctor. 

" No ! it is coming home at last ! " said St. Clare energetically ; " at 
last ! at last ! " 

The effort of speaking exhausted him. The sinking paleness of death 
fell on him ; but with it there fell, as if shed from the wings of some 
pitying spirit, a beautiful expression of peace, like that of a wearied child 
who sleeps. 

So he lay for a few moments. They saw that the mighty hand was on 
him. Just before the spirit parted, he opened his eyes with a sudden 
light, as of joy and recognition, and said, ^^Mot/ier/" and then he 
was gone ! 



We hear often of the distress of the negro-servants on the loss of a kind 
master, and with good reason; for no creature on God's earth is left 
more utterly unprotected and desolate than the slave in these circum- 

The child who has lost his father has still the protection of friends and 
of the law; he is something, and can do something — has acknowledged 
rights and position ; the slave has none. The law regards him, in every 
respect, as devoid of rights as a bale of merchandise. The only possible 
acknowledgment of any of the longings and wants of a human and 
ittimortal creature which are given to him, comes to him through the 


sovereign and irresponsible will of his master; and when that master 
is stricken down, nothing remains. 

The number of those men who know how to use wholly irresponsible 
power humanely and generously is small. Everybody knows this, and the 
slave knows it best of all; so he feels that there are ten chances of his 
finding an abusive and tyrannical master, to one of his finding a 
considerate and kind one. Therefore it is that the wail over a kind 
master is loud and long, as well it may be. 

When St. Clare breathed his last, terror and consternation took hold of 
all his household. He had been stricken down so in a moment, in 
the flower and strength of his youth ! Every room and gallery of the 
house resounded with sobs and shrieks of despair. 

Marie, whose nervous system had been enervated by a constant course of 
self-indulgence, had nothing to support the terror of the shock, and at the 
time her husband breathed his last, was passing from one fainting fit 
to another; and he to whom she had been joined in the mysterious tie of 
marriage passed from her for ever, without the possibility of even a parting 

Miss Ophelia, with characteristic strength and self-control, had remained 
with her kinsman to the last — all eye, all ear, all attention, doing every- 
thing of the little that could be done, and joining with her whole soul in 
the tender and impassioned prayers which the poor slave had poured forth 
for the soul of his dying master. 

When they were arranging him for his last rest, they found upon his 
bosom a small, plain miniature case, opening with a spring. It was 
the miniature of a noble and beautiful female face ; and on the reverse, 
under a crystal, a lock of dark hair. They laid them back on the lifeless 
breast — dust to dust — poor mournful relics of early dreams, which once 
made that cold heart beat so warmly ! 

Tom's whole soul was filled with thoughts of eternity; and while he 
ministered around the lifeless clay, he did not once think that the sudden 
stroke had left him in hopeless slavery. He felt at peace about his 
master, for in that hour when he had poured forth his prayer into the 
bosoiii of his Father, he had found an answer of quietness and assurance 
springing up within himself. In the depths of his own affectionate nature 
he felt able to perceive something of the fulness of Divine love ; for 
an old oracle hath thus written : " He that dwelleth in love dwelleth in 
God, and God in him." Tom hoped and trusted, and was at peace. 

But the funeral passed, with all its pageant of black crape, and prayers, 
and solemn faces ; and back rolled the cool, muddy waves of every-day 
life ; and up came the everlasting hard inquiry of " What is to be done 

It rose to the mind of Marie, as, dressed in loose morning-robes, 
and surrounded by anxious servants, she sat up in a great easy-chair, and 
inspected samples of crape and bombazine. It rose to Miss Ophelia, who 
began to turn her thoughts towards her northern home. It rose, in silent 
terrors, to the minds of the servants, who well knew the unfeeling, 
tyrannical character of the mistress in whose hands they were left. 
All knew very well that the indulgences which had been accorded to them 
were not from their mistress, but from their master ; and that, now he was 
gone, there would be no screen between them and every t)Tannous 
infliction which a temper soured by affliction might devise. 

It was about a fortni^fet after tke foBeral that Miss 0ph6li% busied otMe 


day in her apartment, heard a gentle tap at the door. She opened it, and 
there stood Rosa, the pretty young quadroon whom we have before 
often noticed, her hair in disorder, and her eyes swelled with crying. 

" O Miss Feely," she said, falling on her knees, and catching the skirt 
of her dress, " do, do go to Miss Marie for me ! do plead for me ! She 's 
goin' to send me out to be whipped — look there ! " And she handed 
to Miss Ophelia a paper. 

It was an order, written in Marie's delicate Italian hand, to the master 
of a whipping establishment, to give the bearer fifteen lashes. 

" What have you been doing ? " said Miss Ophelia. 

" You know. Miss Feely, I 've got such a bad temper ; it 's very bad of 
me. I was trying on Miss Marie's dress, and she slapped my face ; and I 
spoke out before I thought, and was saucy; and she said she'd bring 
me down, and have me know, once for all, that I wasn't going to be 
so topping as I had been ; and she wrote this, and says I shall carry it. 
I 'd rather she 'd kill me, right out." 

Miss Ophelia stood considering, with the paper in her hand. 

" You see. Miss Feely," said Rosa, " I don't mind the whipping so 
much, if Miss Marie or you was to do it ; but to be sent to a man ! and 
such a horrid man ! — the shame of it, Miss Feely ! " 

Miss Ophelia well knew that it was the universal custom to send women 
and young girls to the whipping-houses, to the hands of the lowest of men 
■ — men vile enough to make this their profession — there to be subjected to 
brutal exposure and shameful correction. She had ktiown it before ; but 
hitherto she had never realized it, till she saw the slender form of Rosa 
almost convulsed with distress. All the honest blood of womanhood, the 
strong New England blood of liberty, flushed to her cheeks, and throbbed 
bitterly in her indignant heart; but, with habitual prudence and self-control, 
she mastered herself, and, crushing the paper firmly in her hand, she 
merely said to Rosa — 

" Sit down, child, while I go to your mistress." 

" Shameful ! monstrous ! outrageous ! " she said to herself, as she was 
crossing the parlour. 

She found Marie sitting up in her easy chair, with Mammy standing by 
her combing her hair ; Jane sat on the ground before her, busy in chafing 
her feet. 

" How do you find yourself to-day ? " said Miss Ophelia. 

A deep sigh and a closing of the eyes was the only reply for a moment ; 
and then Marie answered, " Oh, I don't know, cousin ; I suppose I 'm as 
well as I ever shall be ! " And Marie wiped her eyes with a cambric 
handkerchief, bordered with an inch of deep black. 

" I came," said Miss Ophelia, with a short dry cough, such as commonly 
introduces a difficult subject, " I came to speak with you about poor 

Marie's eyes were opened wide enough now, and a flush ros^ tO her sallow 
cheeks as she answered sharply — 

" Well ! what about her ? " 

" She is very sorry for her fault." 

" She is, is she ? She '11 be sorrier before I 've done with her ! I *ve 
endured that child's impudence long enough ; and now I '11 bring her 
down — I '11 make her lie in the dust ! " 

" But could you not punish her some other way, some way that would 
be Ifess shameful ? " 


" I mean to shame her ; that 's just what I want. She has all her life 
presumed on her delicacy, and her good looks, and her lady-like airs, till 
she forgets who she is ; and I '11 give her one lesson that will bring her 
down, I fancy ! " 

"But, cousin, consider that, if you destroy delicacy and a sense of 
shame in a young girl, you deprave her very fast." 

" Delicacy ! " said Marie, with a scornful laugh, " a fine word for such 
as she ! I '11 teach her, with all her airs, that she 's no better than the 
raggedest wench that walks the streets ! She '11 take no more airs with 
me ! " 

" You will answer to God for such cruelty ! " said Miss Ophelia, with 

" Cruelty ! I 'd like to know what the cruelty is ? I wrote orders for 
only fifteen lashes, and told him to put them on lightly. I 'm sure there 's 
no cruelty there ! " 

" No cruelty ! " said Miss Ophelia. " I 'm sure any girl might rather 
be killed outright ! " 

" It might seem so to anybody with your feelings, but all these creatures 
get used to it ; it 's the only way they can be kept in order. Once let 
them feel that they are to take any airs about delicacy, and all that, and 
they '11 run all over you, just as my servants always have. I 've begun now 
to bring them under ; and I '11 have them all to know that I '11 send one 
out to be whipped as soon as another if they don't mind themselves ! " 
said Marie, looking around her decidedly. 

Jane hung her head and cowered at this, for she felt as if it was 
particularly directed to her. Miss Ophelia sat for a moment, as if she 
had swallowed some explosive mixture, and was ready to burst. Then, 
recollecting the utter uselessness of contention with such a nature, she 
shut her lips resolutely, gathered herself up, and walked out of the room. 

It was hard to go back and tell Rosa that she could do nothing for 
her ; and, shortly after, one of the man-servants came to say that her 
mistress had ordered him to take Rosa with him to the whipping-house, 
whither she was hurried, in spite of her tears and entreaties. 

A few days after, Tom was standing musing by the balconies, when he 
was joined by Adolph, who, since the death of his master, had been 
entirely crestfallen and disconsolate. Adolph knew that he had always 
been an object of dislike to Marie, but while his master lived he had paid 
but little attention to it. Now that he was gone, he had moved about in daily 
dread and trembling, not knowing what might befall him next. Marie 
had held several consultations with her lawyer. After communicating 
with St. Clare's brother, it was determined to sell the place, and all the 
servants, except her own personal property, and these she intended to 
take with her, and go back to her father's plantation. 

" Do ye know, Tom, that we 've all got to be sold ? " said Adolph. 

" How did you hear that ? " said Tom. 

" I hid myself behind the curtains when missis was talking with the 
lawyer. In a few days we shall all be sent off to auction, Tom." 

" The Lord's will be done ! " said Tom, folding his arras and sighing 

" We '11 never get another such a master," said Adolph apprehensively ; 
" but I 'd rather be sold than take my chance under missis." 

Tom turned away; his heart was full. The hope of liberty, the thought 
of distant wife and children, rose up before his patient soul, as to the 


mariner shipwrecked almost in port rises the vision of the church-spire 
and loving roofs of his native village, seen over the top of some black 
wave only for one last farewell. He drew his arms tightly over his bosom, 
and choked back the bitter tears, and tried to pray. The poor old soul 
had such a singular, unaccountable prejudice in favour of liberty that it 
Jvas a hard wrench for him ; and the more he said, " Thy will be done," 
ihe worse he felt. 

He sought Miss Ophelia, who, ever since Eva's death, had treated him 
with marked and respectful kindness. 

" Miss Feely," he said, " Mas'r St. Clare promised me my freedom. 
He told me that he had begun to take it out for me ; and now, perhaps, if 
Miss Feely would be good enough to speak about it to missis, she would 
feel like goin' on with it, as it was Mas'r St. Clare's wish." 

" I '11 speak for you, Tom, and do my best," said Miss Ophelia ; " but 
if it depends on Mrs. St. Clare, I can't hope much for you ; nevertheless, 
I will try." 

This incident occurred a few days after that of Rosa, while Miss 
Ophelia was busied in preparations to return north. 

Seriously reflecting within herself, she considered that perhaps she had 
shown too hasty a warmth of language in her former interview with Marie; 
and she resolved that she would now endeavour to moderate her zeal, and 
to be as conciliatory as possible. So the good soul gathered herself up, 
and taking her knitting, resolved to go into Marie's room, be as agreeable 
as possible, and negotiate Tom's case with all the diplomatic skill of 
which she was mistress. 

She found Marie reclining at length upon a lounge, supporting herself 
on one elbow by pillows, while Jane, who had been out shopping, was 
displaying before her certain samples of thin black stuffs. 

" That will do," said Marie, selecting one ; " only I 'm not sure about 
its being properly mourning." 

" Laws, missis," said Jane volubly, " Mrs. General Derbennon wore just 
this very thing after the general died, last summer ; it makes up lovely ! " 

" What do you think ? " said Marie to Miss Ophelia. 

" It 's a matter of custom, I suppose," said Miss Ophelia. " You can 
judge about it better than I." 

** The fact is," said Marie, " that I haven't a dress in the world that I 
can wear ; and, as I am going to break up the establishment and go off 
next week, I must decide upon something." 

" Are you going so soon ? " 

"Yes. St. Clare's brother has written, and he and the lawyer think 
that the servants and furniture had better be put up at auction, and the 
place left with our lawyer." 

" There 's one thing I wanted to speak to you about," said Miss Ophelia. 
"Augustine promised Tom his liberty, and began the legal forms necessary 
to it. I hope you will use your influence to have it perfected." 

" Indeed, I shall do no such thing ! " said Marie sharply. " Tom is one 
of the most valuable servants on the place ; it couldn't be afforded any 
way. Besides, what does he want of liberty? He's a great deal better 
off" as he is." 

" But he does desire it very earnestly, and his master promised it," said 
Miss Ophelia. 

"I dare say he does want it," said Marie; "they all want it, just 
because they are a discontented set, always wanting what they haven't got. 


Now, I'm principled against emancipating in any case. Keep a negro 
under the care of a master, and he does well enough and is respectable ; 
but set them free, and they get lazy and won't work, and take to drinking, 
and go all down to be mean, worthless fellows. I've seen it tried 
hundreds of times. It 's no favour to set them free." 

" But Tom is so steady, industrious, and pious." 

" Oh, you needn't tell me ! I 've seen a hundred like him. He '11 do 
very well as long as he 's taken care of, that 's all. 

"But, then, consider," said Miss Ophelia, "when you set him up for 
sale, the chance of his getting a bad master." 

" Oh, that 's all humbug ! " said Marie. " It isn't one time in a hundred 
that a good fellow gets a bad master ; most masters are good, for all the 
talk that is made. I've lived and grown up here in the south, and 
I never yet was acquainted with a master that didn't treat his servants 
well, quite as well as is worth while. I don't feel any fears on that head." 

" Well," said Miss Ophelia energetically, " I know it was one of the 
last wishes of your husband that Tom should have his liberty ; it was one 
of the promises that he made to dear little Eva on her death-bed, and I 
should not think you will feel at liberty to disregard it." 

Marie had her face covered with her handkerchief at this appeal, and 
began sobbing and using her smelling-bottle with great vehemence. 

" Everybody goes against me ! " she said. " Everybody is so in- 
considerate ! I shouldn't have expected that you would bring up all these 
remembrances of my troubles to me ; it 's so inconsiderate ! But nobody 
ever does consider — my trials are so peculiar ! It is so hard that when 
I had only one daughter, she should have been taken ! — and when I had 
a husband that just exactly suited me — and I 'm so hard to be suited ! — 
he should be taken ! And you seem to have so little feeling for me, and 
keep bringing it up to me so carelessly — when you know how it over- 
comes me ! I suppose you mean well ; but it is very inconsiderate, 
very ! " And Marie sobbed, and gasped for breath, and called Mammy to 
open the window, and to bring her the camphor-bottle, and to bathe her 
head and unhook her dress ; and, in the general confusion that ensued, 
Miss Ophelia made her escape to her apartment. 

She saw at once that it would do no good to say anything more, for 
Marie had an indefinite capacity for hysteric fits ; and after this, whenever 
her husband's or Eva's wishes with regard to the servants were alluded to, 
she always found it convenient to set one in operation. Miss Ophelia there- 
fore did the next best thing she could for Tom ; she wrote a letter to Mrs, 
Shelby for him, stating his troubles, and urging them to send to his relief. 

The next day, Tom and Adolph, and some half-dozen other servants, 
were marched down to the slave warehouse to await the convenience of 
the trader, who was going to make up a lot for auction. 



A SLAVE WAREHOUSE ! Perhaps some of my readers conjure up horrible 
visions of such a place. They fancy some foul, obscure den, some 
horrible Tartarus " informts^ ingens, cut lumen adempium." But no, 
irino'c'ent fri'end ! in these days men have learned thfe art of sinning 


expertly and genteelly, so as not to shock the eyes and senses of 
respectable society. Human property is high in the market, and is 
therefore well fed, well cleaned, tended and looked after, that it may come 
to sale sleek, and strong, and shining. A slave warehouse in New Orleans 
is a house externally not much unlike many others, kept in neatness ; and 
where every day you may see arranged, under a sort of shed along the 
outside, rows of men and women, who stand there as a sign of tke 
property sold within. 

Then you shall be courteously intreated to call and examine, and shall 
find an abundance of husbands, wives, brothers, sisters, fathers, mothers, 
and young children, to be "sold separately or in lots, to suit the con- 
venience of the purchaser " ; and that soul immortal, once bought with 
blood and anguish by the Son of God, when the earth shook, and the 
rocks rent, and the graves were opened, can be sold, leased, mortgaged, 
exchanged for groceries or dry goods, to suit the phases of trade or the 
fancy of the purchaser. 

It was a day or two after the conversation between Marie and Miss 
Ophelia, that Tom, Adolph, and about half-a-dozen others of the St. Clare 
estate, were turned over to the loving-kindness of Mr. Skeggs, the keeper 
of a depot on Street, to await the auction next day. 

Tom had with him quite a sizeable trunk full of clothing, as had most 
others of them. They were ushered, for the night, into a long room, 
where many other men of all ages, sizes, and shades of complexion were 
assembled, and from which roars of laughter and unthinking merriment 
were proceeding. 

" Ah, ah ! that 's right. Go it, boys, go it ! " said Mr. Skeggs, the 
keeper. " My people are always so merry ! Sambo, I see ! " he said, 
speaking approvingly to a burly negro who was performing tricks of low 
buffoonery, which occasioned the shouts which Tom had heard. 

As might be imagined, Tom was in no humour to join these proceed- 
ings ; and, therefore, setting his trunk as far as possible from the noisy 
group, he sat down on it, and leaned his face against the wall. 

The dealers in the human article make scrupulous and systematic 
efforts to promote noisy mirth among them, as a means of drowning 
reflection, and rendering them insensible to thefr condition. The whole 
object of the training to which the negro is put, from the time he is sold 
in the northern market till he arrives south, is systematically directed 
towards making him callous, unthinking, and brutal. The slave-dealer 
collects his gang in Virginia or Kentucky, and drives them to some 
convenient, healthy place — often a watering-place — to be fattened. Here 
they are fed full daily ; and, because some incline to pine, a fiddle is kept 
commonly going among them, and they are made to dance daily ; and he 
who refuses to be merry — in whose soul thoughts of wife, or child, or 
home, are too strong for him to be gay — is marked as sullen and 
dangerous, and subjected to all the evils which the ill-will of an utterly 
. ^sponsible and hardened man can inflict upon him. Briskness, alert- 
ness, and cheerfulness of appearance, especially before observers, are 
constantly enforced upon them, both by the hope of thereby getting a 
good master, and the fear of all that the driver may bring upon them 
if they prove unsaleable. 

"What dat ar nigger doin' here?" said Sambo, coming up to Tom, 
after Mr. Skeggs had left the room. Sambo was full black, of great size, 
very lively, voluble, and full of trick and grimace. 


" What you doin' here ? " said Sambo, coming up to Tom, and poking 
him facetiously in the side. " Meditatin', eh ? " 

" I am to be sold at the auction to-morrow," said Tom quietly. 

" Sold at auction — haw ! haw ! boys, an't this yer fun ? I wisht I was 
gwine that ar way ! — tell ye, wouldn't I make 'em laugh ? But how is it ? 
— dis yer whole lot gwine to-morrow ? " said Sambo, laying his hand freely 
on Adolph's shoulder. 

" Please to let me alone ! " said Adolph fiercely, straightening himself 
up with extreme disgust. 

" Law, now, boys ! dis yer 's one o' yer white niggers — kind o' cream- 
colour, ye know, scented ! " said he, coming up to Adolph and snuffing. 
" O Lor' ! he 'd do for a tobacco-shop ; they could keep him to scent 
snuff. Lor, he 'd keep a whole shop ag^vine — he would ! " 

" I say, keep off, can't you ! " said Adolph, enraged. 

" Lor, now, how touchy we is, we white niggers ! Look at us, now ! " 
and Sambo gave a ludicrous imitation of Adolph's manner ; " here 's de 
airs and graces. We 's been in a good family, I 'specs." 

"Yes," said Adolph; "I had a master that could have bought you all 
for old truck ! " 

" Laws, now, only think," said Sambo, " the gentlemens that we is ! " 

" I belonged to the St. Clare family," said Adolph proudly. 

" Lor', you did ! Be hanged if they aren't lucky to get shet of ye ! 
'Specs they gwine to trade ye off with a lot of cracked teapots and sich 
like ! " said Sambo, with a provoking grin. 

Adolph, enraged at this taunt, flew furiously at his adversary, swearing 
and striking on every side of him. The rest laughed and shouted, and 
the uproar brought the keeper to the door. 

" What now, boys ? Order, order ! " he said, coming in and flourishing 
a large whip. 

All fled in different directions, except Sambo, who, presuming on the 
favour which the keeper had to him as a Ucensed wag, stood his ground, 
ducking his head with a facetious grin whenever the master made a dive 
at him. 

" Lor', mas'r, 't an't us — we 's regular stiddy ; it 's these yer new hands ; 
they 's real aggravatin' — kinder pickin' at us, all time ! " 

The keeper at this turned upon Tom and Adolph, and distributed a few 
kicks and cuffs without much inquiry, and, leaving general orders for aL lo 
be good boys and go to sleep, left the apartment. : / 

While this scene was going on in the men's sleeping-room, the rer /er 
may be curious to take a peep at the corresponding apartment allotteci''." ) 
the women. Stretched out in various attitudes over the floor, he may see 
numberless sleeping forms of every shade of complexion, from the purest 
ebony to white, and of all years, from childhood to old age, lying now 
asleep. Here is a fine, bright girl, of ten years, whose mother was sold 
out yesterday, and who to-night cried herself to sleep when nobody was 
looking at her. Here, a worn old negress, whose thin arms and callous 
fingers tell of hard toil, waiting to be sold to-morrow, as a cast-off article, 
for what can be got for her; and some forty or fifty others, with heads 
variously enveloped in blankets or articles of clothing, lie stretched around 
them. But, in a corner, sitting apart from the rest, are two females of a 
more interesting appearance than common. One of these is a respectably- 
dressed mulatto woman, between forty and fifty, with soft eyes and a 
gentle and pleasing physiognomy. She has on her head a high-raised 


turban, made of a gay red Madras handkerchief, of the first quahty, and 
her dress is neatly fitted, and of good material, showing that she has been 
provided for with a careful hand. By her side, and nestling closely to her, 
is a young girl of fifteen — her daughter. She is a quadroon, as may be 
seen from her fairer complexion, though her likeness to her mother is 
quite discernible. She has the same soft, dark eye, with longer lashes, 
and her curling hair is of a luxuriant brown. She also is dressed with 
great neatness ; and her white delicate hands betray very little acquaintance 
with servile toil. These two are to be sold to-morrow, in the same lot 
with the St. Clare servants ; and the gentleman to whom they belong, and 
to whom the money for their sale is to be transmitted, is a member of a 
Christian Church in New York, who will receive the money, and go there- 
after to the sacrament of his Lord and theirs, and think no more of it. 

These two, whom we shall call Susan and Emmeline, had been the 
personal attendants of an amiable and pious lady of New Orleans, by 
whom they had been carefully and piously instructed and trained. They 
had been taught to read and write, diligently instructed in the truths of 
religion, and their lot had been as happy a one as in their condition 
it was possible to be. But the only son of their protectress had the 
management of her property ; and, by carelessness and extravagance, 
involved it to a large amount, and at last failed. One of the largest 
creditors was the respectable firm of B. and Co., in New York. B. and 
Co. wrote to their lawyer in New Orleans, who attached the real estate 
(these two articles and a lot of plantation hands formed the most valuable 
part of it), and wrote word to that effect to New York. Brother B. being, 
as we have said, a Christian man, and a resident in a free State, felt some 
uneasiness on the subject. He didn't like trading in slaves and souls of 
men — of course he didn't; but, then, there were thirty thousand dollars 
in the case, and that was rather too much money to be lost for a principle; 
and so, after much considering, and asking advice from those that he 
knew would advise to suit him, Brother B. wrote to his law7er to dispose 
of the business in the way that seemed to him the most suitable, and 
remit the proceeds. 

The day after the letter arrived in New Orleans, Susan and Emmeline 
were attached, and sent to the depot, to await a general auction on the 
following morning; and as they glimmer faintly upon us in the moon- 
light which steals through the grated window, we may listen to their con- 
versation. Both are weeping, but each quietly, that the other may not hear. 

" Mother, just lay your head on my lap, and see if you can't sleep a 
little," says the girl, trying to appear calm. 

" I haven't any heart to sleep, Em ! I can't ! It 's the last night 
we may be together ! " 

" Oh, mother, don't say so ! Perhaps we shall get sold together — who 
knows ? " 

"If 'twas anybody else's case I should say so too, Em," said the 
woman ; " but I 'm so 'feared of losin' you that I don't see anything 
but the danger." 

"Why, mother? The man said we were both likely, and would sell 

Susan remembered the man's looks and Avords. With a deadly sickness 
at her heart, she remembered how he had looked at Emmeline's hands, 
and lifted up her curly hair, and pronounced her a first-rate article. Susan 
had been trained as a Christian, brought up in the daily reading of 


the Bible, and had the same horror of her child's being sold to a life 
of shame that any other Christian mother might have ; but she had no 
hope — no protection. 

" Mother, I think we might do first-rate, if you could get a place as 
cook, and I as chambermaid or sempstress, in some family. I daresay we 
shall. Let 's both look as bright and lively as we can, and tell all we can 
do, and perhaps we shall," said Emmeline. 

" I want you to brush your hair all back straight to-morrow," said Susan. 

" What for, mother ? I don't look near so well that way." 

" Yes ; but you '11 sell better so." 

" I don't see why ! " said the child. 

" Respectable families would be more apt to buy you if they saw you 
looked plain and decent, as if you wasn't trying to look handsome. I 
know their ways better 'n you do," said Susan. 

" Well, mother, then I will." 

"And, Emmeline, if we shouldn't ever see each other again after 
to-morrow — if I 'm sold 'way up on a plantation somewhere, and you 
somewhere else — always remember how you 've been brought up, and all 
missis has told you. Take your Bible with you, and your hymn-book ; 
and if you 're faithful to the Lord, he '11 be faithful to you." 

So speaks the poor soul in sore discouragement; for she knows that 
to-morrow any man, however vile and brutal, however godless and merci- 
less, if he has only money to pay for her, may become owner of her 
daughter, body and soul ; and then how is the child to be faithful ? She 
thinks of all this as she holds her daughter in her arms, and wishes that 
she were not so handsome and attractive. It seems almost an aggravation 
to her to remember how purely and piously, how much above the ordinary 
lot she has been brought up. But she has no resort but to pray ; and 
many such prayers to God have gone up from those same trim, neatly- 
arranged, respectable slave-prisons — prayers which God has not forgotten, 
as a coming day shall show; for it is written, "Whoso causeth one of 
these little ones to offend, it were better for him that a millstone were 
hanged about his neck, and that he were drowned in the depths of the 

The soft, earnest, quiet moonbeam looks in fixedly, marking the bars of 
the grated windows on the prostrate, sleeping forms. The mother and 
daughter are singing together a wild and melancholy dirge, common as 
a funeral hymn among the slaves : 

"Oh, where is weeping Mary? 
Oh, where is weeping Mary ? 

'Rived in the goodly land. 
She is dead and gone to Heaven ; 
She is dead and gone to Heaven ; 
'Rived in the goodly land." 

These words, sung by voices of a peculiar and melancholy sweetness, in 
an air which seemed like the sighing of earthly despair after heavenly hope, 
floated through the dark prison-rooms with a pathetic cadence, as verse 
after verse was breathed out : 

" Oh, where are Paul and Silas ? 
Oh, where are Paul and Silas ? 
Gone to the goodly land. 
They are dead and gone to Heaven ; 
They are dead and gone to Heaven ; 
'Rived in the goodly land." 


Sing on, poor souls ! The night is short, and the morning will part you 
for ever ! 

But now it is morning, and everybody is astir; and the worthy Mr. 
Skeggs is busy and bright, for a lot of goods is to be fitted out for auction. 
There is a brisk look-out on the toilet ; injunctions passed around to every 
one to put on their best face and be spry ; and now all are arranged in a 
circle for a last review, before they are marched up to the Bourse. 

Mr. Skeggs, with his palmetto on, and his cigar in his mouth, walks 
round to put farewell touches on his wares. 

" How 's this ? " he said, stepping in front of Susan and Emmeline. 
" Where 's your curls, gal ? " 

The girl looked timidly at her mother, who, with the smooth adroitness 
common among her class, answers — 

" I was telling her last night to put up her hair smooth and neat, and 
not havin' it flyin' about in curls — looks more respectable so ! " 

" Bother ! " said the man peremptorily, turning to the girl. " You go 
right along, and curl yourself real smart ! " he added, giving a crack to a 
rattan he held in his hand ; " and be back in quick time, too ! You go 
and help her," he added to the mother. "Them curls may make a 
hundred dollars' difference in the sale of her." 

Beneath a splendid dome were men of all nations, moving to and fro 
over the marble pave. On every side of the circular- area were little 
tribunes, or stations, for the use of speakers and auctioneers. Two of 
these, on opposite sides of the area, were now occupied by brilliant and 
talented gentlemen, enthusiastically forcing up, in English and French 
commingled, the bids of connoisseurs in their various wares. A third 
one, on the other side, still unoccupied, was surrounded by a group 
waiting the moment of sale to begin. And here we may recognise the 
St. Clare servants, Tom, Adolph, and others ; and there, too, Susan and 
Emmeline, awaiting their turn with anxious and dejected faces. Various 
spectators, intending to purchase or not intending, as the case might be, 
gathered around the group, handling, examining, and commenting on 
their various points and faces with the same freedom that a set of jockeys 
discuss the merits of a horse. 

" Hulloa, Alf ! what brings you here ? " said a young exquisite, slapping 
the shoulder of a sprucely dressed young man, who was examining Adolph 
through an eye-glass. 

" Well, I was wanting a valet, and I heard that St. Clare's lot was going. 
I thought I 'd just look at his." 

" Catch me ever buying any of St. Clare's people ! Spoilt niggers, every 
one ! Impudent as the devil ! " said the other. 

" Never fear that ! " said the first. " If I get 'em, I '11 soon have their 
airs out of them ; they '11 soon find that they 've another kind of master to 
deal with than Monsieur St. Clare. 'Pon my word, I '11 buy that fellow. 
I like the shape of him." 

"You'll find it'll take all you've got to keep him. He's deucedly 
extravagant ! " 

" Yes, but my lord will find that he cat^t be extravagant with me. Just 
let him be sent to the calaboose a few times, and thoroughly dressed 
down ! I '11 tell you if it don't bring him to a sense of his ways ! Oh, 
I '11 reform him, up hill and down — you '11 see ! I buy him, that 's flat ! " 


Tom had been standing wistfully examining the multitude of faces 
thronging around him for one whom he would wish to call master ; and, 
if you should ever be under the necessity, sir, of selecting out of two 
hundred men one who was to become your absolute owner and disposer, 
you would perhaps realise, just as Tom did, how few there were that you 
would feel at all comfortable in being made over to. Tom saw abundance 
of men ; great, burly, gruff men ; little, chirping, dried men ; long-favoured, 
lank, hard men ; and every variety of stubbed-looking, common-place men, 
who pick up their fellow-men as one picks up chips, putting them into the 
fire or a basket with equal unconcern, according to their convenience ; but 
he saw no St. Clare. 

A little before the sale commenced, a short, broad, muscular man, in a 
checked shirt, considerably open at the bosom, and pantaloons much the 
worse for dirt and wear, elbowed his way through the crowd, like one who 
is going actively into a business ; and, coming up to the group, began to 
examine them systematically. From the moment that Tom saw him 
approaching, he felt an immediate and revolting horror at him, that 
increased as he came near. He was evidently, though short, of gigantic 
strength. His round, bullet head, large, light-grey eyes, with their shaggy, 
sandy eyebrows, and stiff, wiry, sun-burned hair, were rather unpre- 
possessing items, it is to be confessed ; his large, coarse mouth was 
distended with tobacco, the juice of which, from time to time, he ejected 
from him with great decision and explosive force; his hands were im- 
mensely large, hairy, sun-burned, freckled, and very dirty, and garnished 
with long nails, in a very foul condition. This man proceeded to a very 
free personal examination of the lot. He seized Tom by the jaw, and 
pulled open his mouth to inspect his teeth ; made him strip up his sleeve, 
to show his muscle ; turned him round, made him jump and spring, to 
show his paces. 

"Where was you raised?" he added briefly to these investigations. 

*' In Kintuck, mas'r," said Tom, looking about as if for deliverance. 

"What have you done?" 

" Had care of mas'r's farm," said Tom. 

" Likely story ! " said the other shortly, as he passed on. He paused a 
moment before 'Dolph ; then spitting a discharge of tobacco-juice on his 
well-blacked boots, and giving a contemptuous umph, he walked on. 
Again he stopped before Susan and Emmeline. He put out his heavy, 
dirty hand, and drew the girl towards him ; passed it over her neck and 
bust, felt her arms, looked at her teeth, and then pushed her back against 
her mother, whose patient face showed the suffering she had been going 
through at every motion of the hideous stranger. 

The girl was frightened, and began to cry. 

"Stop that, you minx!" said the salesman; "no whimpering here, the 
sale is going to begin." And accordingly the sale began. 

Adolph was knocked off at a good sum to the young gentleman who . 
had previously stated his intention of buying him ; and the other servants 
of the St. Clare lot went to various bidders. 

" Now, up with you, boy ! d'ye hear?" said the auctioneer to Tom. 

Tom stepped upon the block, gave a few anxious looks round; all 
seemed mingled in a common indistinct noise — the clatter of the salesman 
crying off his qualifications in French and English, the quick fire of 
French and English bids ; and almost in a moment came the final thump 
of the hammer, and the clear ring on the last syllable of the word 


** dollars" as the auctioneer announced his price, and Tom was made 
over. — He had a master! 

He was pushed from the block; the short, bullet-headed man, seizing 
him roughly by the shoulder, pushed him to one side, saying, in a harsh 
voice, " Stand there, you /" 

Tom hardly realised anything ; but still the bidding went on — rattling, 
clattering, now French, now English. Down goes the hammer again — 
Susan is sold. She goes down from the block, stops, looks wistfully back; 
her daughter stretches her hands towards her. She looks with agony in 
the face of the man who has bought her — a respectable, middle-aged man 
of benevolent countenance. 

"Oh, mas'r, please do buy my daughter!" 

"I'd like to, but I'm afraid I can't afford it!" said the gentleman, 
looking with painful interest as the young girl mounted the block, and 
looked around her with a frightened and timid glance. 

The blood flushes painfully in her otherwise colourless cheek, her eye 
has a feverish fire, and her mother groans to see that she looks more 
beautiful than she ever saw her before. The auctioneer sees his advantage, 
and expatiates volubly in mingled French and English, and bids rise in 
rapid succession. 

" I '11 do anything in reason," said the benevolent-looking gentleman, 
pressing in and joining with the bids. In a few moments they have run 
beyond his purse. He is silent ; the auctioneer grows warmer ; but bids 
gradually drop off. It lies now between an aristocratic old citizen and 
our bullet-headed acquaintance. The citizen bids for a few turns, 
contemptuously measuring his opponent; but the bullet-head has the 
advantage over him, both in obstinacy and concealed length of purse, and 
the controversy lasts but a moment; the hammer falls — he has got the 
girl, body and soul, unless God help her 1 

Her master is Mr. Legree, who owns a cotton plantation on the Red 
River. She is pushed along in the same lot with Tom and two other 
men, and goes off, weeping as she goes. 

This benevolent gentleman is sorry ; but then the thing happens every 
day ! One sees girls and mothers crying at these sales always I it can't 
be helped, &:c. ; and he walks off with his acquisition in another direction. 

Two days after, the lawyer of the Christian firm of B. and Co., New 
York, sent on their money to them. On the reverse of that draft, so 
obtained, let them write these words of the great Paymaster, to whom 
they shall make up their account in a future day: " When He tnaketh 
inquisition for blood, He forgetteth not the cry of the hutnbk!" 



" Thou art of purer eyes than to behold evil, and canst not look upon iniquity : where- 
fore lookest thou upon them that deal treacherously, and holdest thy tongue when 
the wicked devoureth the man that is more righteous than he." — Hab. i. 13. 

On the lower part of a small, mean boat, on the Red River, Tom sat — 
chains on his wrists, chains on his feet, and a weight heavier than chains 
lay on his heart. All had faded from the sky — moon and stars — all had 
passed by him, as the trees and banks were now passing, to return no 


more. Kentucky home, with wife and children, and indulgent owners; 
St. Clare home, with all its refinements and splendours ; the golden head 
of Eva, with its saint-like eyes; the proud, gay, handsome, seemingly care- 
less, yet ever-kind St. Clare; hours of ease and indulgent leisure — all gone! 
and in place thereof, what remains ? 

It is one of the bitterest apportionments of a lot of slavery, that the 
negro, sympathetic and assimilative, after acquiring, in a refined family, 
the tastes and feelings which form the atmosphere of such a place, is not 
the less liable to become the bond-slave of the coarsest and most brutal — 
just as a chair or table, which once decorated the superb saloon, comes, at 
last, battered and defaced, to the bar-room of some filthy tavern, or some 
low haunt of vulgar debauchery. The great difference is, that the table 
and chair cannot feel, and the man can ; for even a legal enactment that 
he shall be "taken, reputed, adjudged in law, to be a chattel personal," 
cannot blot out his soul with its own private little world of memories, 
hopes, loves, fears, and desires. 

Mr. Simon Legree, Tom's master, had purchased slaves at one place 
and another, in New Orleans, to the number of eight, and driven them, 
handcuffed, in couples of two and two, down to the good steamer Pirate^ 
which lay at the levee, ready for a trip up the Red River. 

Having got them fairly on board, and the boat being off, he came round, 
with that air of efficiency which ever characterised him, to take a review of 
them. Stopping opposite to Tom, who had been attired for sale in his 
best broadcloth suit, with well-starched linen and shining boots, he briefly 
expressed himself as follows : 

"Stand up!" 

Tom stood up. 

"Take off that stock !" and as Tom, encumbered by his fetters, proceeded 
to do it, he assisted him, by pulling it, with no gentle hand, from his neck, 
and putting it in his pocket. 

Legree now turned to Tom's trunk, which, previous to this, he had been 
ransacking, and, taking from it a pair of old pantaloons and a dilapidated 
coat, which Tom had been wont to put on about his stable-work, he said, 
liberating Tom's hands from the handcuffs, and pointing to a recess in 
among the boxes — 

" You go there, and put these on." 

Tom obeyed, and in a few moments returned. 

" Take off your boots," said Mr. Legree. 

Tom did so. 

" There," said the former, throwing him a pair of coarse, stout shoes, 
such as were common among the slaves, " put these on." 

In Tom's hurried exchange he had not forgotten to transfer his cherished 
Bible to his pocket. It was well he did so; for Mr. Legree, having refitted 
Tom's handcuffs, proceeded deliberately to investigate the contents of his 
pockets. He drew out a silk handkerchief, and put it into his own pocket. 
Several little trifles which Tom had treasured, chiefly because they had 
amused Eva, he looked upon with a contemptuous grunt, and tossed them 
over his shoulder into the river. 

Tom's Methodist hymn-book, which, in his hurry, he had forgotten, he 
now held up and turned over. 

" Humph ! pious, to be sure. So, what 's yer name, you belong to the 
Church, eh?" 

" Yes, mas'r," said Tom firmly. 


" Well, I '11 soon have that out of you. I have none o' yer bawling, 
praying, singing niggers on my place; so remember. Now, mind yourself," 
he said, with a stamp and a fierce glance of his grey eye, directed at Tom, 
"/'»? your Church now ! You understand — you 've got to be as /say." 

Something within the silent black man answered No! and, as if repeated 
by an invisible voice, came the words of an old prophetic scroll, as Eva 
had often read them to him — "Fear not: for I have redeemed thee, I have 
called thee by my name, thou art Mine ! " 

But Simon Legree heard no voice. That voice is one he never shall 
hear. He only glared for a moment on the downcast face of Tom, and 
walked off. He took Tom's trunk, which contained a very neat and 
abundant wardrobe, to the forecastle, where it was soon surrounded by 
various hands of the boat. With much laughing at the expense of niggers 
who tried to be gentlemen, the articles very readily were sold to one and 
another, and the empty trunk finally put up at auction. It was a good 
joke, they all thought, especially to see how Tom looked after his things, 
as they were going this way and that ; and then the auction of the trunk, 
that was funnier than all, and occasioned abundant witticisms. 

This little affair being over, Simon sauntered up again to his property. 

*' Now, Tom, I 've relieved you of any extra baggage, you see. Take 
mighty good care of them clothes. It '11 be long enough before you get 
more. I go in for making niggers careful; one suit has to do for one year 
on my place." 

Simon next walked up to the place where Emmeline was sitting, chained 
to another woman. 

" Well, my dear," he said, chucking her under the chin, " keep up your 

The involuntary look of horror, fright, and aversion with which the girl 
regarded him did not escape his eye. He frowned fiercely. 

" None o' your shines, gal ! You 's got to keep a pleasant face when I 
speak to ye — d'ye hear ? And you, you old yellow poco moonshine ! " he 
said, giving a shove to the mulatto woman to whom Emmeline was chained, 
" don't you carry that sort of face ! You 's got to look chipper, I tell ye ! " 

" I say, all on ye," he said, retreating a pace or tvvo back, "look at me — 
look at me — look me right in the eye — straight, now ! " said he, stamping 
his foot at every pause. 

As by a fascination, every eye was now directed to the glaring, greenish- 
grey eye of Simon. 

" Now," said he, doubling his great heavy fist into something resembling 
a blacksmith's hammer, " d'ye see this fist ? Heft it ! " he said, bringing 
it down on Tom's hand. " Look at these yer bones ! Well, I tell ye, this 
yer fist has got as hard as iron knocking down niggers. I never see the 
nigger yet I couldn't bring down with one crack," said he, bringing his fist 
down so near to the face of Tom that he winked and drew back. "I don't 
keep none o' yer cussed overseers ; I does my own overseeing ; and I tell 
you things is seen to. You 's every one on ye got to toe the mark, I tell 
ye, quick — straight — the moment I speak. That 's the way to keep in with 
me. You won't find no soft spot in me nowhere. So, now, mind yourselves; 
for I don't show no mercy ! " 

The women involuntarily drew in their breath, and the whole gang sat 
with downcast, dejected faces. Meanwhile Simon turned on his heel, and 
marched up to the bar of the boat for a dram. 

"That's the way I begin with my niggers," he said to a gentlemanly 


man who had stood by him during his speech. " It 's my system to begin 
strong — Just let 'em know what to expect." 

" Indeed ! " said the stranger, looking upon him with the curiosity of a 
naturalist studying some out-of-the-way specimen. 

" Yes, indeed. I 'm none o' yer gentleman planters, with lily fingers, to 
slop round and be cheated by some old cuss of an overseer ! Just feel of 
my knuckles, now ; look at my fist. Tell ye, sir, the flesh on 't has come 
jest like a stone, practising on niggers — feel on it ! " 

The stranger applied his finger to the implement in question, and simply 
said, " 'T is hard enough, and I suppose," he added, " practice has made 
your heart just like it." 

" Why, yes, I may say so," said Simon, with a hearty laugh. " I reckon 
there 's as little soft in me as in any one going. Tell you, nobody comes 
it over me ! Niggers never gets round me, neither with squalling nor soft 
soap — that's a fact." 

" You have a fine lot there." 

" Real," said Simon. " There 's that Tom, they tell'd me he was suthin' 
uncommon. I paid a little high for him, 'tending him for a driver and a 
managing chap ; only get the notions out that he 's larnt by being treated 
as niggers never ought to be, he '11 do prime ! The yellow woman I got 
took in in. I rayther think she 's sickly ; but I shall put her through for 
what she 's worth — she may last a year or two. I don't go for savin' niggers. 
Use up and buy more 's my way ; makes you less trouble, and I 'm quite 
sure it comes cheaper in the end," and Simon sipped his glass. 

" And how long do they generally last ? " said the stranger. 

" Well, donno ; 'cordin' as their constitution is. Stout fellers last six 
or seven years ; trashy ones gets worked up in two or three. I used to, 
when I first begun, have considerable trouble fussin' with 'em and trying 
to make 'em hold out — doctorin' on 'em up when they 's sick, and giving 
on 'em clothes and blankets, arid what not, tryin' to keep 'em all sort o' 
decent and comfortable. Law, 't wasn't no sort o' use ; I lost money on 
'em, and 'twas heaps o' trouble. Now, you see, I just put 'em straight 
through, sick or well. When one nigger's dead, I buy another; and I find 
it comes cheaper and easier, every way." 

The stranger turned away, and seated himself beside a gentleman who 
had been listening to the conversation with repressed uneasiness. 

"You must not take that fellow to be any specimen of southern 
planters," said he. 

" I should hope not ! " said the young gentleman, with emphasis. 

" He is a mean, low, brutal fellov/ ! " said the other. 

"And yet your laws allow him to hold any number of human beings 
subject to his absolute will, without even a shadow of protection ; and, 
low as he is, you cannot say there are not many such." 

" Well," said the other, " there are also many considerate and humane 
men among planters." 

"Granted," said the young man; "but, in my opinion, it is you con- 
siderate, humane men that are responsible for all the brutality and outrage 
wrought by these wretches ; because, if it were not for your sanction and 
influence, the whole system could not keep foot-hold for an hour. If there 
were no planters except such as that one," said he, pointing with his finger 
to Legree, who stood with his back to them, "the whole thing would 
go down like a millstone. It is your respectability and humanity licenses 
and protects his brutaUty." 


"You certainly have a high opinion of my good nature," said the 
planter, smiling ; " but I advise you not to talk quite so loud, as there are 
people on board the boat who might not be quite so tolerant to opinion as 
I am. You had better wait till I get up to my plantation, and there you 
may abuse us all, quite at your leisure." 

The young gentleman coloured and smiled, and the two were soon busy 
in a game of backgammon. Meanwhile, another conversation was going 
on in the lower part of the boat, between Emmeline and the mulatto 
woman with whom she was confined. As was natural, they were ex- 
changing with each other some particulars of their history. 

" Who did you belong to ? " said Emmeline. 

" Well, my mas'r was Mr. Ellis — lived on Levee-street. P'r'aps you 've 
seen the house ? " 

" Was he good to you ? " said Emmehne. 

" Mostly, till he tuk sick. He 's lain sick, off and on, more than 
six months, and been orful oneasy. 'Pears like he warn't willing to have 
nobody rest, day nor night ; and got so cur'ous, there couldn't nobody suit 
him. 'Pears like he just grew crosser every day ; kept me up nights till I 
got fairly beat out, and couldn't keep awake no longer ; and 'cause I got to 
sleep, one night — Lors, he talk so orful to me, and he tell me he 'd sell me 
to just the hardest master he could find ; and he 'd promised me my 
freedom, too, when he died." 

" Had you any friends ? " said Emmeline. 

"Yes, my husband — he's a blacksmith. Mas'r gen'ly hired him out. 
They took me off so quick, I didn't even have time to see him ; and I 's 
got four children. Oh, dear me ! " said the woman, covering her face with 
her hands. 

It is a natural impulse with every one, when they hear a tale of distress, 
to think of something to say by way of consolation. Emmeline wanted 
to say something, but she could not think of anything to say. What was 
there to be said ? As by a common consent they both avoided, with fear 
and dread, all mention of the horrible man who was now their master. 

True, there is religious trust for even the darkest hour. The mulatto 
woman was a member of the Methodist Church, and had an unenlightened 
but very sincere spirit of piety. Emmeline had been educated much 
more intelligently — taught to read and write, and diligently instructed 
in the Bible, by the care of a faithful and pious mistress ; yet, would 
it not try the faith of the firmest Christian, to find themselves abandoned, 
apparently, of God, in the grasp of ruthless violence ? How much more 
must it shake the faith of Christ's poor Uttle ones, weak in knowledge and 
tender in years ! 

The boat moved on — freighted with its weight of sorrow — up the red, 
muddy, turbid current, through the abrupt, tortuous windings of the Red 
River; and sad eyes gazed wearily on the steep red-clay banks, as they 
glided by in dreary sameness. At last the boat stopped at a small town, 
and Legree, with his party, disembarked. 




*'The dark places of the earth are full of the habitations of cruelty." 

Trailing wearily behind a rude waggon, and over a ruder road, Tom and 
his associates faced onward. 

In the waggon was seated Simon Legree; and the two women, still 
fettered together, were stowed away with some baggage in the back part 
of it, and the whole company were seeking Legree's plantation, which lay 
a good distance off. 

It was a wild, forsaken road, now winding through dreary pine barrens, 
where the wind whispered mournfully, and now over log causeways, 
through long cypress swamps, the doleful trees rising out of the slimy, 
spongy ground, hung with long wreaths of funereal black moss, while ever 
and anon the loathsome form of the mocassin snake might be seen 
gliding among broken stumps and shattered branches that lay here and 
there, rotting in the water. 

It is disconsolate enough, this riding, to the stranger, who, with well- 
filled pocket and well-appointed horse, threads the lonely way on some 
errand of business ; but wilder, drearier, to the man enthralled, whom 
every weary step bears further from all that man loves and prays for. 

So one should have thought that witnessed the sunken and dejected ex- 
pression on those dark faces; the wistful, patient weariness with which 
those sad eyes rested on object after object that passed them in their sad 

Simon rode on, however, apparently well pleased, occasionally pulling 
away at a flask of spirit, which he kept in his pocket. 

" I say, you ! " he said, as he turned back and caught a glance at the dis- 
pirited faces behind him. " Strike up a song, boys — come ! " 

The men looked at each other, and the " come " was repeated, with a 
smart crack of the whip which the driver carried in his hands. Tom 
began a Methodist hymn — 

' ' Jerusalem, my happy home, 
Name ever dear to me ! 
When shall my sorrows have an end, 
Thy joys when shall — " 

" Shut up, you black cuss ! " roared Legree ; " did ye think I wanted 
any o' yer infernal old Methodism ? I say, tune up, now, something real 
rowdy — quick ! " 

One of the other men struck up one of those unmeaning songs common 
among the slaves — 

' ' Mas'r seed me cotch a coon, 
High boys, high ! 
He laughed to split — d 'ye see the moon ? 

Ho ! ho ! ho ! boys, ho ! 
Ho ! yo ! hi— e ! oh ! " 

The singer appeared to make up the song to his own pleasure, generally 
hitting on rhyme, without much attempt at reason ; and all the party took 
up the chorus at intervals — 

" Ho ! ho ! ho ! boys, ho ! 
High — e — oh ! high — e — oh ! " 


It was sung very boisterously, and with a forced attempt at merriment; 
but no wail of despair, no words of impassioned prayer, could have had 
such a depth of woe in them as the wild notes of the chorus : as if 
the poor, dumb heart, threatened — prisoned — took refuge in that in- 
articulate sanctuary of music, and found there a language in which 
to breathe its prayer to God ! There was a prayer in it which Simon 
could not hear. He only heard the boys singing noisily, and was well 
pleased ; he was making them " keep up their spirits." 

"Well, my little dear," said he, turning to Emmeline, and laying his 
hand on her shoulder, " we 're almost home ! " 

When Legree scolded and stormed, Emmeline was terrified; but when 
he laid his hand on her, and spoke as he now did, she felt as if she had 
rather he would strike her. The expression of his eyes made her soul sick, 
and her flesh creep. Involuntarily she clung closer to the mulatto woman 
by her side, as if she were her mother. 

" You didn't ever wear ear-rings ? " he said, taking hold of her small ear 
with his coarse fingers. 

" No, mas'r ! " said Emmeline, trembling and looking down, 

"Well, I'll give you a pair when we get home, if you're a good girl. 
You needn't be so frightened ; I don't mean to make you work very hard. 
You'll have fine times with me, and live like a lady — only be a good girl." 

Legree had been drinking to that degree that he was inclining to be 
very gracious ; and it was about this time that the inclosures of the planta- 
tion rose to view. The estate had formerly belonged to a gentleman 
of opulence and taste, who had bestowed some considerable attention 
to the adornment of his grounds. Having died insolvent, it had been 
purchased, at a bargain, by Legree, who used it, as he did everything 
else, merely as an implement for money-making. The place had that 
ragged, forlorn appearance, which is always produced by the evidence 
that the care of the former owner has been left to go to utter decay. 

What once was a smooth-shaven lawn before the house, dotted here and 
there with ornamental shrubs, Avas now covered with frowsy tangled grass, 
with horse posts set up here and there in it, where the turf was stamped 
away, and the ground littered with broken pails, cobs of corn, and other 
slovenly remains. Here and there a mildewed jessamine or honeysuckle 
hung raggedly from some ornamental support, which had been pushed to 
one side by being used as a horse-post. What once was a large garden 
was now all grown over with weeds, through which, here and there, some 
solitary exotic reared its forsaken head. What had been a conservatory 
had now no window-sashes, and on the mouldering shelves stood some 
dry, forsaken flower-pots, with sticks in them, whose dried leaves showed 
they had once been plants. 

The waggon rolled up a weedy gravel-walk, under a noble avenue of 
China-trees, whose graceful forms and ever springing foliage seemed to be 
the only things there that neglect could not daunt or alter — like noble 
spirits, so deeply rooted in goodness as to flourish and grow stronger amid 
discouragement and decay. The house had been large and handsome. 
It was built in a manner common at the south ; a wide verandah of 
two storeys running round every part of the house, into which every outer 
door opened, the lower tier being supported by brick pillars. 

But the place looked desolate and uncomfortable ; some windows 
stopped up with boards, some with shattered panes, and shutters hanging 
by a single hinge — all telling of coarse neglect and discomfort. 


Bits of board, straw, old decayed barrels and boxes, garnished the 
ground in all directions ; and three or four ferocious-looking dogs, roused 
by the sound of the waggon-wheels, came tearing out, and were with 
difficulty restrained from laying hold of Tom and his companions, by the 
efforts of the ragged servants who came after them. 

"Ye see what ye 'd get!" said Legree, caressing the dogs with grim 
satisfaction, and turning to Tom and his companions. "Ye see what 
ye 'd get if ye 'd try to run off. These yer dogs has been raised to track 
niggers; and they'd jest as soon chaw one on ye up as eat their supper. 
So mind yerself ! How now. Sambo ! " he said to a ragged fellow, without 
any brim to his hat, who was officious in his attentions. " How have 
things been going ?" 

" Fust rate, mas'r." 

" Quimbo," said Legree to another, who was making zealous demonstra- 
tions to attract his attention, " ye minded what I telled ye ?" 

" Guess I did, didn't I ?" 

These two coloured men were the two principal hands on the plantation. 
Legree had trained them in savageness and brutality as systematically as 
he had his bull -dogs; and, by long practice in hardness and cruelty, 
brought their whole nature to about the same range of capacities. It is a 
common remark, and one that is thought to militate strongly against the 
character of the race, that the negro overseer is always more tyrannical 
and cruel than the white one. This is simply saying that the negro mind 
has been more crushed and debased than the white. It is no more true 
of this race than of every oppressed race, the world over. The slave is 
always a tyrant, if he can get a chance to be one. 

Legree, like some potentates we read of in history, governed his 
plantation by a sort of resolution of forces. Sambo and Quimbo 
cordially hated each other; the plantation hands, one and all, cordially 
hated them ; and by playing off one against the other he was pretty sure, 
through one or the other of the three parties, to get informed of whatever 
was on foot in the place. 

Nobody can live entirely without social intercourse; and Legree 
encouraged his two black satellites to a kind of coarse familiarity with 
him — a familiarity, however, at any moment liable to get one or the other 
of them into trouble; for, on the slightest provocation, one of them 
always stood ready, at a nod, to be a minister of his vengeance on the 

As they stood there now by Legree, they seemed an apt illustration of 
the fact that brutal men are lower even than animals. Their coarse, dark, 
heavy features; their great eyes, rolling enviously on each other; their 
barbarous, guttural, half-brute intonation; their dilapidated garments 
fluttering in the wind — were all in admirable keeping with the vile and 
unwholesome character of everything about the place. 

"Here, you Sambo," said Legree, "take these yer boys down to the 
quarters ; and here 's a gal I 've got for you" said he, as he separated the 
mulatto woman from Emmeline, and pushed her towards him; "I 
promised to bring you one, you know." 

The woman gave a sudden start, and, drawing back, said suddenly — 

" O mas'r ! I left my old man in New Orleans." 

"What of that, you ; won't you want one here? None o' your 

words — go 'long !" said Legree, raising his whip. 

" Come, mistress," he said to Emmeline, " you go in here with me." 


A dark, wild face was seen, for a moment, to glance at the window of 
the house ; and, as Legree opened the door, a female voice said something 
in a quick imperative tone. Tom, who was looking, with anxious interest, 
after Emmeline, as she went in, noticed this, and heard Legree answer 
angrily, "You may hold your tongue ! I '11 do as I please for all you !" 

Tom heard no more ; for he was soon following Sambo to the quarters. 
The quarters was a little sort of street of rude shanties, in a row, in a part 
of the plantation far off from the house. They had a forlorn, brutal, 
forsaken air. Tom's heart sank when he saw them. He had been 
comforting himself with the thought of a cottage, rude, indeed, but one 
which he might make neat and quiet, and where he might have a shelf 
for his Bible, and a place to be alone out of his labouring hours. He 
looked into several; they were mere rude shells, destitute of any species 
of furniture, except a heap of straw, foul with dirt, spread confusedly over 
the floor, which was merely the bare ground, trodden hard by the 
tramping of innumerable feet. 

"Which of these will be mine?" said he to Sambo submissively. 

"Dunno; ken turn in here, I s'pose," said Sambo; "'spect thar's 
room for another thar ; thar 's a pretty smart heap o' niggers to each on 
'em, now ; sure, I dunno what I 's to do with more." 


It was late in the evening when the weary occupants of the shanties 
came flocking home — men and women, in soiled and tattered garments, 
surly and uncomfortable, and in no mood to look pleasantly on new 
comers. The small village was alive with no inviting sounds; hoarse, 
guttural voices contending at the hand-mills where their morsel of hard 
corn was yet to be ground into meal, to fit it for the cake that was to 
constitute their only supper. From the earliest dawn of the day they had 
been in the fields, pressed to work under the driving lash of the overseers; 
for it was now in the very heat and hurry of the season, and no means 
were left untried to press every one up to the top of their capabilities. 
"True," says the negligent lounger; "picking cotton isn't hard work." 
Isn't it? And it isn't much inconvenience, either, to have one drop of 
water fall on your head; yet the worst torture of the Inquisition is 
produced by drop after drop, drop after drop, falling moment after 
moment, with monotonous succession, on the same spot; and work in 
itself not hard becomes so by being pressed, hour after hour, with 
unvarying, unrelenting sameness, with not even the consciousness of 
free-will to take from its tediousness. Tom looked in vain among the 
gang, as they poured along, for companionable faces. He saw only 
sullen, scowHng, embruted men, and feeble discouraged women, or women 
that were not women — the strong pushing away the weak — the gross, 
unrestricted animal selfishness of human beings, of whom nothing good 
was expected and desired ; and who, treated in every way like brutes, had 
sunk as nearly to their level as it was possible for human beings to do. To 
a late hour in the night the sound of the grinding was protracted ; for the 
mills were few in number compared with the grinders, and the weary and 
feeble ones were driven back by the strong, and came on last in their turn. 

"Ho, yo'!" said Sambo, coming to the mulatto woman, and thro^ving 
down a bag of corn before her, "what a cuss you name?" 

" Lucy," said the woman. 

"Wal, Lucy, yo' my woman now. Yo' grind dis yer com, and get my 
supper baked, 'ye har?" 


"I an't your woman, and I won't be !" said the woman, with the sharp, 
sudden courage of despair; "you go 'long 1" 

"I'll kick yo', then !" said Sambo, raising his foot threateningly. 

" Ye may kill me, if ye choose — the sooner the better ! Wish't I was 
dead ! " said she. 

" I say, Sambo, you go to spilin' the hands, I '11 tell mas'r o' you," said 
Quimbo, who was busy at the mill, from which he had viciously driven 
two or three tired women, who were waiting to grind their corn. 

" And I '11 tell him ye won't let the women come to the mills, yo' old 
nigger ! " said Sambo. " Yo' jes' keep to your own row." 

Tom was hungry with his day's journey, and almost faint for want of 

"Thar, yo'!" said Quimbo, throwing down a coarse bag, which con- 
tained a peck of corn ; " thar, nigger, grab — take car' on 't ; yo' won't get 
no more dis yer week." 

Tom waited till a late hour to get a place at the mills; and then, moved 
by the utter weariness of two women, whom he saw trying to grind their 
corn there, he ground for them, put together the decaying brands of the 
fire where many had baked cakes before him, and then went about getting 
his own supper. It was a new kind of work there — a deed of charity, 
small as it was ; but it woke an answering touch in their hearts — an 
expression of womanly kindness came over their hard faces. They 
mixed his cake for him, and tended its baking; and Tom sat down by 
the light of the fire, and drew out his Bible — for he had need of comfort. 

"What's that?" said one of the women. 

"A Bible," said Tom. 

" Good Lord, han't seen 'un since I was in Kentuck." 

" Was you raised in Kentuck ? " said Tom, with interest. 

" Yes, and well raised, too ; never 'spected to come to dis yer ! " said 
the woman, sighing. 

"What's dat ar book, any way?" said the other woman. 

"Why, the Bible." 

" Laws a me ! what 's dat ? " said the woman. 

" Do tell ! you never hearn on 't ? " said the other woman. " I used to 
h'ar missis a readin' on 't, sometimes, in Kentuck ; but, laws o' me ! we 
don't h'ar nothin' here but crackin' and swarin'." 

" Read a piece, anyways ! " said the first woman curiously, seeing Tom 
attentively poring over it. 

Tom read, "Come unto Me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, 
and I will give you rest." 

" Them 's good words enough," said the woman ; " who says 'em ? " 

" The Lord," said Tom. 

" I jest wish I know'd whar to find Him," said the woman. " I would 
go; 'pears like I never should get rested ag'in. My flesh is fairly sore, 
and I tremble all over, every day, and Sambo's allers a jawin' at me, 
'cause I doesn't pick faster ; and nights it 's most midnight 'fore I can get 
my supper ; and. den 'pears like I don't turn over and shut my eyes 'fore 
I hear de horn blow to get up, and at it ag'in in de mornin'. If I knew 
whar de Lord was, I 'd tell Him." 

" He 's here, he 's everywhere," said Tom. 

" Lor ! you an't gwine to make me believe dat ar ! I know de Lord 
an't here," said the woman; "'tan't no use talking, though. I's jest 
gwine to camp down, and sleep while I ken." 


The women went off to their cabins, and Tom sat alone, by the 
smouldering fire, that flickered up redly in his face. 

The silver, fair-browed moon rose in the purple sky, and looked down, 
calm and silent, as God looks on the scene of misery and oppression — 
looked calmly on the lone black man, as he sat, with his arms folded, and 
his Bible on his knee. 

"Is God HERE?" Ah, how is it possible for the untaught heart to 
keep its faith, unswerving, in the face of dire misrule, and palpable, un- 
rebuked injustice ? In that simple heart waged a fierce conflict : the 
crushing sense of wrong, the foreshadowing of a whole life of future 
misery, the wreck of all past hopes, mournfully tossing in the soul's sight, 
like dead corpses of wife, and child, and friend, rising from the dark wave, 
and surging in the face of the half-drowned mariner ! Ah, was it easy 
here to believe and hold fast the great pass-word of Christian faith, that 
" God IS, and is the rewarder of them that diligently seek Him " ? 

Tom rose, disconsolate, and stumbled into the cabin that had been 
allotted to him. The floor was already strewn with weary sleepers, and 
the foul air of the place almost repelled him ; but the heavy night dews 
were chill and his limbs weary, and, wrapping about him a tattered 
blanket, which formed his only bed-clothing, he stretched himself in the 
straw and fell asleep. 

In dreams, a gentle voice came over his ears ; he was sitting on the 
mossy seat in the garden by Lake Pontchartrain, and Eva, with her 
serious eyes bent downward, was reading to him from the Bible ; and he 
heard her read — 

" When thou passest through the waters I will be with thee ; and the 
rivers they shall not overflow thee; when thou walkest through the fire 
thou shalt not be burned, neither shall the flame kindle upon thee; for 
I am the Lord thy God, the Holy One of Israel, thy Saviour." 

Gradually the words seemed to melt and fade, as in a divine music; 
the child raised her deep eyes, and fixed them lovingly on him, and rays 
of warmth and comfort seemed to go from them to his heart ; and, as if 
wafted on the music, she seemed to rise on shining wings, from which 
flakes and spangles of gold fell off like stars, and she was gone. 

Tom woke. Was it a dream ? Let it pass for one. But who shall say 
that that sweet young spirit, which in life so yearned to comfort and console 
the distressed, was forbidden of God to assume this ministry after death ? 

" It is a beautiful belief, 

That ever round our head 
Are hovering, on angel wings, 
The spirits of the dead." 



"And behold the tears of such as were oppressed, and they had no comforter, and on 
the side of their oppressors there "was power, but they had no comforter." — EccL. iv. I. 

It took but a short time to familiarise Tom with all that was to be hoped 
or feared in his new way of life. He was an expert and efficient workman 
in whatever he undertook; and was, both from habit and principle, 
prompt and faithful. Quiet and peaceable in his disposition, he hoped. 


by unremitting diligence, to avert from himself at least a portion of the 
evils of his condition. He saw enough of abuse and misery to make him 
sick and weary; but he determined to toil on with religious patience, 
committing himself to Him that judgeth righteously, not without hope 
that some way of escape might yet be opened to him. 
1 Legree took silent note of Tom's availability. He rated him as a first- 
class hand ; and yet he felt a secret dislike to him — the native antipathy 
I of bad to good. He saw plainly that when, as was often the case, his 
•^ violence and brutality fell on the helpless, Tom took notice of it ; for, so 
subtle is the atmosphere of opinion, that it will make itself felt without 
words, and the opinion even of a slave may annoy a master. Tom in 
various ways manifested a tenderness of feeling, a commiseration for his 
fellow-sufferers, strange and new to them, which was watched with a 
jealous eye by Legree. He had purchased Tom with a view of eventually 
making him a sort of overseer, with whom he might at times intrust his 
affairs in short absences; and, in his view, the first, second, and third 
requisite for that place was hardness. Legree made up his mind that, as 
Tom was not hard to his hand, he would harden him forthwith; and 
some few weeks after Tom had been on the place he determined to 
commence the process. 

One morning, when the hands were mustered for the field, Tom noticed 
with surprise a new comer among them, whose appearance excited his 
attention. It was a woman, tall and slenderly formed, with remarkably 
delicate hands and feet, and dressed in neat and respectable garments. 
By the appearance of her face, she might have been between thirty-five 
and for^y ; and it was a face that, once seen, could never be forgotten — 
one of' those that at a glance seem to convey to us an idea of a wild, 
painful, and romantic history. Her forehead was high, and her eyebrows 
marked with beautiful clearness. Her straight, well-formed nose, her 
finely-cut mouth, and the graceful contour of her head and neck, showed 
that she must once have been beautiful ; but her face was deeply wrinkled 
with lines of pain, and of proud and bitter endurance. Her complexion 
was sallow and unhealthy, her cheeks thin, her features sharp, and her 
whole form emaciated. But her eye was the most remarkable feature — so 
large, so heavily black, overshadowed by long lashes of equal darkness, 
and so wildly, mournfully despairing. There was a fierce pride and 
defiance in every line of her face, in every curve of the flexible hp, in 
every motion of her body; but in her eye was a deep, settled night of 
anguish^an expression so hopeless and unchanging as to contrast fear- 
fully with the scorn and pride expressed by her whole demeanour. 

Where she came from, or who she was, Tom did not know. The first 
he did know, she was walking by his side, erect and proud, in the dim 
grey of the dawn. To the gang, however, she was known ; for there was 
much looking and turning of heads, and a smothered yet apparent exulta- 
tion among the miserable, ragged, half-starved creatures by whom she was 

" Got to come to it, at last — grad of it ! " said one. 

" He ! he ! he ! " said another ; " you will know how good it is, misse ! " 

" We '11 see her work ! " 

" Wonder if she '11 get a cutting up, at night, like the rest of us ! " 

" I 'd be glad to see her down for a flogging, I '11 bound ! " said another. 

The woman took no notice of these taunts, but walked on with the 
same expression of angry scorn, as if she heard nothing. Tom had 



always lived among refined and cultivated people, and he felt intuitively, 
from her air and bearing, that she belonged to that class ; but how or why 
she could be fallen to these degrading circumstances he could not tell. 
The woman neither looked at him nor spoke to him, though, all the way 
to the field, she kept close at his side. 

Tom was soon busy at his work ; but, as the woman was at no great 
distance from him, he often glanced an eye to her, at her work. He saw 
at a glance that a native adroitness and handiness made the task to her 
an easier one than it proved to many. She picked very fast and very 
clean, and with an air of scorn, as if she despised both the work and the 
disgrace and humiliation of the circumstances in which she was placed. 

In the course of the day, Tom was working with the mulatto woman 
who had been bought in the same lot with himself. She was evidently in 
a condition of great suffering, and Tom often heard her praying, as she 
wavered and trembled, and seemed about to fall down. Tom silently, as 
he came near to her, transferred several handfuls of cotton from his own 
sack to hers. 

" Oh, don't, don't ! " said the woman, looking surprised ; " it '11 get you 
into trouble." 

Just then Sambo came up. He seemed to have a special spite against 
this woman ; and, flourishing his whip, said, in brutal, guttural tones, 
" What dis yer. Luce — foolin', eh ? " and, with a word, kicking the woman 
with his heavy cow-hide shoe, he struck Tom across the face with his whip. 

Tom silently resumed his task ; but the woman, before at the last point 
of exhaustion, fainted. 

" I '11 bring her to ! " said the driver, with a brutal grin. " I '11 give her 
something better than camphire ! " and, taking a pin from his coat-sleeve, 
he buried it to the head in her flesh. The woman groaned, and half rose. 
" Get up, you beast, and work, will yer, or I '11 show you a trick more ! " 

The woman seemed stimulated, for a few moments, to an unnatural 
strength, and worked with desperate eagerness. 

"See that you keep to dat ar," said the man, "or yer '11 wish yer's dead 
to-night, I reckin ! " 

" That I do now ! " Tom heard her say ; and again he heard her say, 
" O Lord, how long ? O Lord, why don't you help us ? " 

At the risk of all that he might suffer, Tom came forward again, and 
put all the cotton in his sack into the woman's. 

" Oh, you mustn't ! you dunno what they '11 do to ye ! " said the woman. 

"I can b'ar it," said Tom, " better 'n you"; and he was at his place 
again. It passed in a moment. 

Suddenly the stranger woman whom we have described, and who had, 
in the course of her work, come near enough to hear Tom's last words, 
raised her heavy black eyes, and fixed them for a second on him ; then, 
taking a quantity of cotton from her basket, she placed it in his. 

" You know nothing about this place," she said, " or you wouldn't have 
done that. When you've been here a month, you'll be done helping 
anybody ; you '11 find it hard enough to take care of your own skin." 

" The Lord forbid, missis ! " said Tom, using instinctively to his field 
companion the respectful form proper to the high-bred Avath whom he had 

" The Lord never visits these parts," said the woman bitterly, as she 
went nimbly forward with her work ; and again the scornful smile curled 
her lips. 


But the action of the woman had been seen by the driver across the 
field ; and, flourishing his whip, he came up to her. 

" What ! what ! " he said to the woman, with an air of triumph, " you a 
foolin' ? Go along ! yer under me now — mind yourself, or yer '11 cotch it !" 

A glance like sheet lightning flashed from those black eyes ; and, facing 
about, with quivering lip and dilated nostrils, she drew herself up, and 
fixed a glance, blazing with rage and scorn, on the driver. 

'• Dog ! " she said, " touch me, if you dare ! I 've power enough yet to 
have you torn by the dogs, burnt alive, cut to inches ! I 've only to say 
the word ! " 

" What de devil you here for, den ? " said the man, evidently cowed, and 
sullenly retreating a step or two. " Didn't mean no harm, Misse Cassy ! " 

" Keep your distance, then ! " said the woman. And, in truth, the man 
seemed greatly inclined to attend to something at the other end of the 
field, and started off in quick time. 

The woman suddenly turned to her work, and laboured with a despatch 
that was perfectly astonishing to Tom. She seemed to work by magic. 
Before the day was through, her basket was filled, crowded down, and 
piled, and she had several times put largely into Tom's. Long after dusk, 
the whole weary train, with their baskets on their heads, defiled up to the 
building appropriated to the storing and weighing the cotton. Legree was 
there, busily conversing with the two drivers. 

" Dat ar Tom 's gwine to make a powerful deal o' trouble ; kept a puttin' 
into Lucy's basket. One o' these yer dat will get all der niggers to feelin' 
'bused, if mas'r don't watch him ! " said Sambo. 

" Hey-day ! The black cuss ! " said Legree. " He '11 have to get a 
breakin' in — won't he, boys ? " 

Both negroes grinned a horrid grin at this intimation. 

" Ay, ay ! let Mas'r Legree alone for breakin' in ! De debil heself 
couldn't beat mas'r at dat ! " said Quimbo. 

" Wal, boys, the best way is to give him the flogging to do till he gets 
over his notions. Break him in ! " 

" Lord, mas'r '11 have hard work to get dat out o' him ! " 

" It '11 have to come out of him, though ! " said Legree, as he rolled his 
tobacco in his mouth. 

" Now, dar 's Lucy — de aggravatinest, ugliest wench on de place ! " 
pursued Sambo. 

" Take care, Sam ; I shall begin to think what 's the reason for your 
spite agin Lucy." 

" Well, mas'r knows she sot herself up agin mas'r, and wouldn't have 
me when he telled her to." 

" I 'd 'a flogged her into 't," said Legree, spitting, " only there 's such a 
press o' work, it don't seem wuth a while to upset her jist now. She 
slender; but these yer slender gals will bear half killin' to get their own 
way ! " 

" Wal, Lucy was real aggravatin' and lazy, sulkin' round ; wouldn't do 
nothin'; and Tom he tuck up for her." 

" He did, eh ? Wal, then, Tom shall have the pleasure of flogging her. 
It '11 be a good practice for him, and he won't put it on to the gal like you 
devils, neither." 

" Ho, ho ! haw ! haw ! haw ! " laughed both the sooty wretches ; and 
the diabolical sounds seemed, in truth, a not unapt expression of the 
fiendish character which Legree gave them. 


"Well, but, mas'r, Tom and Misse Cassy, and dey among 'em, filled 
Lucy's basket. I ruther guess der weight 's in it, mas'r." 

" I do the weighing/" said Legree emphatically. 

Both the drivers again laughed their diabolical laugh. 

" So ! " he added, " Miss Cassy did her day's work." 

" She picks like de debil and all his angels ! " 

" She 's got 'em all in her, I beUeve ! " said Legree ; and, growling a 
brutal oath, he proceeded to the weighing-room. 


Slowly the weary, dispirited creatures wound their way into the room, 
and, with crouching reluctance, presented their baskets to be weighed. 

Legree noted on a slate, on the side of which was pasted a list of 
names, the amount. 

Tom's basket was weighed and approved; and he looked with an 
anxious glance for the success of the woman he had befriended. 

Tottering with weakness, she came forward and delivered her basket. 
It was full weight, as Legree well perceived ; but, affecting anger, he said — 

" What, you lazy beast ! short again ! Stand aside ; you '11 catch it 
pretty soon ! " 

The woman gave a groan of utter despair, and sat down on a board. 

The person who had been called Misse Cassy now came forward, and, 
with a haughty, negligent air, delivered her basket. As she delivered it, 
Legree looked in her eyes with a sneering yet inquiring glance. 

She fixed her black eyes steadily on him, her lips moved slightly, and 
she said something in French. What it was, no one knew ; but Legree's 
face became perfectly demoniacal in its expression as she spoke ; he half 
raised his hand, as if to strike — a gesture which she regarded with fierce 
disdain, as she turned and walked away. 

" And now," said Legree, " come here, you Tom, You see, I telled ye 
I didn't buy ye jest for the common work. I mean to promote ye, and 
make a driver of ye; and to-night ye may jest as well begin to get yer 
hand in. Now, ye jest take this yer gal and flog her ; ye 've seen enough 
on 't to know how." 

" I beg mas'r's pardon," said Tom ; " hopes mas'r won't set me at that. 
It 's what I an't used to — never did — and can't do, no way possible." 

" Ye '11 larn a pretty smart chance of things ye never did know, before 
I 've done with ye ! " said Legree, taking up a cow-hide, and striking Tom 
a heavy blow across the cheek, and following up the infliction by a shower 
of blows. 

" There ! " he said, as he stopped to rest ; " now will ye tell me ye can't 

"Yes, mas'r," said Tom, putting up his hand to wipe the blood that 
trickled down his face. " I 'm willin' to work night and day, and work 
while there 's life and breath in me ; but this yer thing I can't feel it right 
to do; and, mas'r, I never shall do it — never!" 

Tom had a remarkably smooth, soft voice, and an habitually respectful 
manner, that had given Legree an idea that he would be cowardly, and 
easily subdued. When he spoke these last words, a thrill of amazement 
went through every one ; the poor woman clasped her hands and said, 
" O Lord ! " and every one involuntarily looked at each other and drew in 
their breath, as if to prepare for the storm that was about to burst. 

Legree looked stupefied and confounded ; but at last burst forth — 

" What ! ye blasted black beast ! tell me ye don't think it right to do 



what I tell ye ! What have any of you cussed cattle to do with thinking 
what 's right ? I '11 put a stop to it ! Why, what do ye think ye are ? 
Maybe ye think ye 're a gentleman, Master Tom, to be a telling your master 
what s right and what an't ! So you pretend it 's wrong to flog the gal ! " 

"I think so, mas'r," said Tom. "The poor crittur's sick and feeble; 
't would be downright cruel, and it 's what I never will do, nor begin to. 
Mas'r, if you mean to kill me, kill me ; but as to my raising my hand agin 
any one here, I never shall — I '11 die first ! " 

Tom spoke in a mild voice, but with a decision that could not be 
mistaken. Legree shook with anger; his greenish eyes glared fiercely, 
and his very whiskers seemed to curl with passion ; but, like some 
ferocious beast, that plays with its victim before he devours it, he kept 
back his strong impulse to proceed to immediate violence, and broke out 
into bitter raillery. 

" Well, here's a pious dog, at last, let down among us sinners! — a saint, 
a gentleman, and no less, to talk to us sinners about our sins ! Powerful 
holy crittur he must be ! Here, you rascal, you make believe to be so 
pious — didn't you never hear, out of yer Bible, ' Servants, obey your 
masters ' ? An't I your master ? Didn't I pay down twelve hundred 
dollars, cash, for all there is in yer old cussed black shell ? An't yer mine, 
now, body and soul ? " he said, giving Tom a violent kick with his heavy 
boot ; " tell me ! " 

In the very depth of physical suffering, bowed by brutal oppression, 
this question shot a gleam of joy and triumph through Tom's soul. He 
suddenly stretched himself up, and, looking earnestly to heaven, while the 
tears and blood that flowed down his face mingled, he exclaimed, — 

" No, no, no ! my soul an't yours, mas'r ! You haven't bought it — ye 
can't buy it ! It 's been bought and paid for by one that 's able to keep it. 
No matter, no matter, you can't harm me ! " 

" I can't ! " said Legree, with a sneer ; "we '11 see ! Here, Sambo ! 
Quimbo ! give this dog such a breakin' in as he won't get over this 
month ! " 

The two gigantic negroes that now laid hold of Tom, with fiendish 
exultation in their faces, might have formed no unapt personification of 
powers of darkness. The poor woman screamed with apprehension, and 
all rose, as by a general impulse, while they dragged him unresisting from 
the place. 


THE quadroon's STORY. 

"And behold the tears of such as were oppressed ; and on the side of the oppressors 
there was power. Wherefore I praised the dead which are already dead more than the 
living which are yet alive." — ECCL. iv. i, 2. 

It was late at night, and Tom lay groaning and bleeding alone, in an old 
forsaken room of the gin-house, among pieces of broken machinery, piles 
of damaged cotton, and other rubbish which had there accumulated. 

The night was damp and close, and the thick air swarmed with myriads 
of mosquitos, which increased the restless torture of his wounds ; whilst a^ 
burning thirst — a torture beyond all others — filled up the uttermos| 
measure of physical anguish. 


" Oh, good Lord ! Do look down — give me the victory ! — give me the 
victory over all," prayed poor Tom, in his anguish. 

A footstep entered the room behind him, and the light of a lantern 
flashed on his eyes. 

" Who 's there ? Oh, for the Lord's massy, please give me some 

The woman Cassy — for it was she — set down her lantern, and, pouring 
water from a bottle, raised his head, and gave him drink. Another and 
another cup were drained, with feverish eagerness. 

" Drink all ye want," she said ; " I knew how it would be. It isn't the 
first time I 've been out in the night carrying water to such as you." 

" Thank you, missis," said Tom, when he had done drinking. 

" Don't call me missis ! I 'm a miserable slave, like yourself — a lower 
one than you can ever be ! " she said bitterly. " But now," said she, 
going to the door, and dragging in a small palliasse, over which she spread 
linen cloths wet with cold water, " try, my poor fellow, to roll yourself 
on to this." 

Stiff with wounds and bruises, Tom was a long time in accomplishing 
this movement ; but when done, he felt a sensible relief from the cooling 
application to his wounds. 

The woman, whom long practice with the victims of brutality had made 
familiar with many healing arts, went on to make many applications to 
Tom's wounds, by means of which he was soon somewhat relieved. 

" Now," said the woman, when she had raised his head on a roll of 
damaged cotton, which served for a pillow, " there 's the best I can do for 

Tom thanked her ; and the woman, sitting down on the floor, drew up 
her knees, and, embracing them with her arms, looked fixedly before her, 
with a bitter and painful expression of countenance. Her bonnet fell 
back, and long wavy streams of black hair fell around her singular and 
melancholy face. 

" It 's no use, my poor fellow," she broke out, at last ; " it 's of no use, 
this you 've been trying to do. You were a brave fellow — you had the 
right on your side ; but it 's all in vain and out of the question for you 
to struggle. You are in the devil's hands; he is the strongest, and you 
must give up." 

Give up ! and had not human weakness and physical agony whispered 
that before ? Tom started, for the bitter woman, with her wild eyes and 
melancholy voice, seemed to him an embodiment of the temptation with 
which he had been wrestling. 

" O Lord ! O Lord ! " he groaned, " how can I give up ? " 

"There's no use in calling on the Lord — he never hears," said the 
woman steadily. " There isn't any God, I believe ; or, if there is, he 's 
taken sides against us. All goes against us, heaven and earth. Every- 
thing is pushing us into hell. Why shouldn't we go ? " 

Tom closed his eyes, and shuddered at the dark atheistic words. 

"You see," said the woman, '■'■ you don't know anything about it — I do. 
I 've been in this place five years, body and soul, under this man's foot ; 
and I hate him as I do the devil ! Here you are, on a lone plantation, 
ten miles from any other, in the swamps ; not a white person here who 
could testify if you were burned alive — if you were scalded, cut in inch- 
pieces, set up for the dogs to tear, or hung up and whipped to death. 
There 's no law here, of God or man, that can do you or any one of us 


the least good ; and this man ! there 's no earthly thing that he 's too good 
to do, I could make any one's hair rise and their teeth chatter, if I 
should only tell what I 've seen and been knowing to here — and it 's no use 
resisting ! Did I want to live with him ? Wasn't I a woman deUcately 
bred ? and he — God in heaven ! what was he, and is he ? And yet I 've 
lived with him these five years, and cursed every moment of my life — 
night and day ! And now he 's got a new one — a young thing, only 
fifteen ; and she brought up, she says, piously. Her good mistress taught 
her to read the Bible, and she's brought her Bible here — to hell with 
her ! " And the woman laughed a wild and doleful laugh, that rang with 
a strange supernatural sound through the old ruined shed. 

Tom folded his hands ; all was darkness and horror. 

" O Jesus ! Lord Jesus ! have you quite forgot us poor critturs ? " burst 
forth at last. " Help, Lord, I perish ! " 

The woman sternly continued — 

" And what are these miserable low dogs you work with, that you 
should suffer on their account ? Every one of them would turn against 
you the first time they got a chance. They are all of 'em as low and cruel 
to each other as they can be ; there 's no use in your suffering to keep 
from hurting them." 

"Poor critturs ! " said Tom, "what made 'em cruel ? And if I give out 
I shall get used to 't, and grow, little by little, just like 'em ! No, no, 
missis ! I 've lost everything — ^wife, and children, and home, and a kind 
mas'r — and he would have set me free, if he 'd only lived a week longer. 
I 've lost everything in this world, and it 's clean gone for ever — and now I 
can't lose heaven, too ! no, I can't get to be wicked, besides aU ! " 

" But it can't be that the Lord will lay sin to our account," said the 
woman ; "he won't charge it to us, when we 're forced to it ; he '11 charge 
it to them that drove us to it." 

" Yes," said Tom, " but that won't keep us from growing wicked. If I 
get to be as hard-hearted as that ar Sambo, and as wicked, it won't make 
much odds to me how I come so ; it 's the bein' so — that ar's what I 'm a 

The woman fixed a wild and startled look on Tom, as if a new thought 
had struck her ; and then, heavily groaning, said — 

" O God 'a mercy ! you speak the truth ! O — 0—0 ! " And, with 
groans, she fell on the floor, hke one crushed and writhing under the 
extremity of mental anguish. 

There was a silence awhile, in which the breathing of both parties 
could be heard, when Tom faintly said, " Oh, please, missis ! " 

The woman suddenly rose up, with her face composed to its usual 
stern, melancholy expression. 

" Please, missis, I saw 'em throw my coat in that ar corner, and in my 
coat-pocket is my Bible — if missis would please get it for me." 

Cassy went and got it. Tom opened it, at once, to a heavily-marked 
passage, much worn, of the last scenes in the life of Him by whose stripes 
we are healed. 

" If missis would only be so good as read that ar — it 's better than 

Cassy took the book, with a dry, proud air, and looked over the passage. 
She then read aloud, in a soft voice, and with a beauty of intonation that 
was peculiar, that touching account of anguish and of glory. Often, as 
she read, her voice faltered, and sometimes failed altogether, when she 


would stop, with an air of frigid composure, till she had mastered herself. 
When she came to the touching words, "Father, forgive them, for they 
know not what they do," she threw down the book, and, burying her face 
in the heavy masses of her hair, she sobbed aloud, with a convulsive 

Tom was weeping also, and occasionally uttering a smothered ejacula- 

" If we only could keep up that ar ! " said Tom ; " it seemed to come 
so natural to him, and we have to fight so hard for 't ! O Lord, help us ' 
O blessed Lord Jesus, do help us ! " 

" Missis," said Tom, after a while, " I can see that somehow you 're 
quite 'bove me in everything ; but there 's one thing missis might learn, 
even from poor Tom, Ye said the Lord took sides against us, because he 
lets us be 'bused and knocked round ; but ye see what come on his own 
Son — the blessed Lord of Glory. Wan't he al'ays poor ? and have we, 
any on us, yet come so low as he come ? The Lord han't forgot us — I 'm 
sartin' o' that ar. If we suffer with him, we shall also reign, Scripture 
says ; but if we deny him, he also will deny us. Didn't they all suffer — 
the Lord and all his ? It tells how they was stoned and sawn asunder, 
and wandered about in sheepskins and goatskins, and was destitute, 
afflicted, tormented. Sufferin' an't no reason to make us think the Lord 's 
turned agin us, but jest the contrary, if we only hold on to him, and 
doesn't give up to sin." 

"But why does he put us where we can't help but sin?" said the 

" I think we can help it," said Tom. 

" You '11 see," said Cassy, " What '11 you do ? To-morrow they '11 
be at you again. I know 'em, I have seen all their doings ; I can't 
bear to think of all they '11 bring you to — and they '11 make you give 
out at last!" 

" Lord Jesus ! " said Tom ; " you will take care of my soul ? O Lord, 
do ! — don't let me give out ! " 

" Oh, dear," said Cassy, " I 've heard all this crying and praying before ; 
and yet they 've been broken down and brought under. There 's Emme- 
line, she 's trying to hold on, and you 're trying — but what use ? You 
must give up, or be killed by inches." 

" Well, then, I will die ! " said Tom. " Spin it out as long as they 
can, they can't help my dying some time ! and after that they can't 
do no more. I 'm clar ! I 'm set ! I know the Lord '11 help me, and 
bring me through." 

The woman did not answer ; she sat with her black eyes intently fixed 
on the floor, 

" Maybe it 's the way," she murmured to herself ; " but those that have 
given up, there 's no hope for them — none ! We live in filth and grow 
loathsome, till we loathe ourselves ! And we long to die, and we don't 
dare to kill ourselves ! No hope ! no hope ! no hope ; — this girl now — 
just as old as I was. You see me now," she said, speaking to Tom very 
rapidly, " see what I am ! Well, I was brought up in luxury. The first I 
remember is playing about, when I was a child, in splendid parlours — 
when I was kept dressed up like a doll, and company and visitors used to 
praise me. There was a garden opening from the saloon ^^^ndows ; and 
there I used to play hide-and-go-seek, under the orange-trees, mth my 
brothers and sisters. I went to a convent, and there I learned music 


French, embroidery, and what not ; and when I was fourteen I came out 
to my father's funeral. He died very suddenly, and when the property 
came to be settled, they found that there was scarcely enough to cover the 
debts; and when the creditors took an inventory of the property, I was 
set down in it. My mother was a slave woman, and my father had always 
meant to set me free ; but he had not done it, and so I was set down in 
the list. I' d always known who I was, but never thought much about it. 
Nobody ever expects that a strong, healthy man is a going to die. My 
father was a well man only four hours before he died — it was one of the 
first cholera cases in New Orleans. "The day after the funeral my father's 
wife took her children, and went up to her father's plantation. I thought 
they treated me strangely, but didn't know. There was a young lawyer 
whom they left to seiLle the business ; and he came every day, and 
was about the house, and spoke very politely to me. He brought with 
him one day a young man, whom I thought the handsomest I had even 
seen. I shall never forget that evening. I walked with him in the 
garden. I was lonesome and full of sorrow, and he was so kind and 
gentle to me; and he told me that he had seen me before I went to 
the convent, and that he had loved me a great while, and that he would 
be my friend and protector. In short — though he didn't tell me he had 
paid two thousand dollars for me, and I was his property, I became his 
willingly, for I loved him. Loved ! " said the woman, stopping, " oh, how 
I did love that man ! How I love him now, and always shall while I 
breathe ! He was so beautiful, so high, so noble ! He put me into 
a beautiful house, with servants, horses, and carriages, and furniture, and 
dresses. Everything that money could buy he gave me ; but I didn't set 
any value on all that ; I only cared for him. I loved him better than my 
God and my own soul ; and, if I tried, I couldn't do any other way than 
he wanted me to. 

" I wanted only one thing — I did want him to marry me. I thought if 
he loved me as he said he did, and if I was what he seemed to think 
I was, he would be willing to marry me and set me free. But he 
convinced me that it would be impossible; and he told me that, if 
we were only faithful to each other, it was marriage before God. If that 
is true, wasn't I that man's wife ? Wasn't I faithful ? For seven years 
didn't I study every look and motion, and only hve and breathe to please 
him ? He had the yellow fever, and for twenty days and nights I watched 
with him — I alone ; and gave him all his medicine, and did everything for 
him ; and then he called me his good angel, and said I 'd saved his hfe. 
We had two beautiful children. The first was a boy, and we called him 
Henry ; he was the image of his father — he had such beautiful eyes, such 
a forehead, and his hair hung all in curls around it — and he had all his 
father's spirit, and his talent, too. Little Elise, he said, looked like me. 
He used to tell me I was the most beautiful woman in Louisiana, he was 
so proud of me and the children. He used to love to have me dress 
them up, and take them and me about in an open carriage, and hear the 
remarks that people would make on us; and he used to fill my ears 
constantly with the fine things that were said in praise of me and the 
children. Oh, those were happy days ! I thought I was as happy as any 
one could be ; but then there came evil times. He had a cousin come 
to New Orleans who was his particular friend — he thought all the world of 
him ; but, from the first time I saw him, I couldn't tell why, I dreaded 
him, for I felt sure he was going to bring misery on us. He got Henry to 


go out with him, and often he would not come home nights till two or 
three o'clock. I did not dare say a word, for Henry was so high-spirited 
I was afraid to. He got him to the gaming-houses ; and he was one of 
the sort that, when he once got a going there, there was no holding back. 
And then he introduced him to another lady, and I saw soon that his 
heart was gone from me. He never told me, but I saw it — I knew it, day 
after day. I felt my heart breaking, but I could not say a word. At this 
the wretch offered to buy me and the children of Henry, to clear off his 
gambling debts, which stood in the way of his marrying as he wished — 
and he sold us. He told me one day that he had business in the country, 
and should be gone two or three weeks. He spoke kinder than usual, and 
said he should come back ; but it didn't deceive me, I knew that the time 
had come. I was just like one turned into stone ; I could not speak nor 
shed a tear. He kissed me and kissed the children a good many times, 
and went out. I saw him get on his horse, and watched him till he was 
quite out of sight, and then I fell down and fainted. 

" Then he came, the cursed wretch ! he came to take possession. He 
told me that he had bought me and my children, and showed me the papers. 
I cursed him before God, and told him I 'd die sooner than live with him. 

" ' Just as you please,' said he ; ' but if you don't behave reasonably, I '11 
sell both the children, where you shall never see them again.' He told me 
that he always had meant to have me, from the first time he saw me ; and 
that he had drawn Henry on, and got him in debt, on purpose to make 
him willing to sell me. That he got him in love with another woman ; 
and that I might know, after all that, that he should not give up for a few 
airs and tears, and things of that sort. 

" I gave up, for my hands were tied. He had my children ; whenever 
I resisted his will anywhere, he would talk about selling them, and he 
made me as submissive as he desired. Oh, what a life it was ! to live with 
my heart breaking, every day — to keep on, on, on, loving, when it was 
only misery ; and to be bound, body and soul, to one I hated. I used to 
love to read to Henry, to play to him, to waltz with him, and sing to him ; 
but everything I did for this one was a perfect drag — yet I was afraid to 
refuse anything. He was very imperious and harsh to the children. 
Elise was a timid little thing ; but Henry was bold and high-spirited, like 
his father, and he had never been brought under in the least by any one. 
He was always finding fault, and quarrelling with him ; and I used to live 
in daily fear and dread. I tried to make the child respectful — I tried to 
keep them apart, for I held on to those children like death ; but it did no 
good. He sold both those children. He took me to ride one day, and, 
when I came home, they were nowhere to be found ! He told me he 
had sold them ; he showed me the money, the price of their blood. Then 
it seemed as if all good forsook me. I raved and cursed — cursed God 
and man ; and, for a while, I believe, he really was afraid of me. But 
he didn't give up so. He told me that my children were sold, but 
whether I ever saw their faces again depended on him ; and that if I 
wasn't quiet they should smart for it. Well, you can do anything with a 
woman when you 've got her children. He made me submit ; he made 
me be peaceable; he flattered me with hopes that perhaps he would buy 
them back ; and so things went on for a week or two. One day I was out 
walking, and passed by the calaboose ; I saw a crowd about the gate, and 
keard a child's voice — and suddenly my Henry broke away from two or 
three men who were holding him, and ran, screaming, and caught my 


dress. They came up to him, swearing dreadfully ; and one man, whose 
face I shall never forget, told him that he wouldn't get away so ; that he 
was going with him into the calaboose, and he 'd get a lesson he 'd never 
forget. I tried to beg and plead — they only laughed ; the poor boy 
screamed and looked into my face, and held on to me, until, in tearing 
him off, they tore the skirt of my dress half away ; and they carried him 
in screaming ' Mother ! mother ! mother ! ' There was one man stood there, 
seemed to pity me. I offered him all the money I had if he'd only interfere. 
He shook his head, and said that the man said the boy had been impudent 
and disobedient ever since he bought him ; that he was going to break 
him in, once for all. I turned and ran; and every step of the way I 
thought that I heard him scream. I got into the house, ran, all out of 
breath, to the parlour, where I found Butler. I told him, and begged him 
to go and interfere. He only laughed, and told me the boy had got his 
deserts. He 'd got to be broken in — the sooner the better. ' What did 
I expect ? ' he asked. 

" It seemed to me something in my head snapped at that moment. I 
felt dizzy and furious. I remember seeing a great sharp bowie-knife on 
the table ! I remember , something about catching it, and flying upon 
him ; and then all grew dark, and I didn't know any more — not for days 
and days. 

" When I came to myself, I was in a nice room — but not mine. An 
old black woman tended me, and a doctor came to see me, and there was 
a great deal of care taken of me. After a while I found that he had gone 
away, and left me at this house to be sold ; and that 's why they took such 
pains with me. 

" I didn't mean to get well, and hoped I shouldn't ; but, in spite of me, 
the fever went off, and I grew healthy, and finally got up. Then they 
made me dress up every day ; and gentlemen used to come in and stand 
and smoke their cigars, and look at me, and ask questions, and debate my 
price. I was so gloomy and silent that none of them wanted me. They 
threatened to whip me if I wasn't gayer, and didn't take some pains to 
make myself agreeable. At length, one day, came a gentleman named 
Stuart. He seemed to have some feeling for me ; he saw that something 
dreadful was on my heart, and he came to see me alone a great many 
times, and finally persuaded me to tell him. He bought me at last, and 
promised to do all he could to find and buy back my children. He went 
to the hotel where my Henry was ; they told him he had been sold to a 
planter up on Pearl River ; that was the last that I ever heard. Then he 
found where my daughter was; an old woman was keeping her. He 
offered an immense sum for her; but they would not sell her. Butler 
found out that it was for me he wanted her ; and he sent me word that I 
should never have her. Captain Stuart was very kind to me ; he had a 
splendid plantation, and took me to it. In the course of a year I had a 
son born. Oh, that child ! — how I loved it ! How just like my poor 
Henry the little thing looked ! But I had made up my mind — yes, I had, 
I would never again let a child live to grow up ! I took the little fellow 
in my arms, when he was two weeks old, and kissed him, and cried over ■ 
him; and then I gave him laudanum, and held him close to my bosom 
while he slept to death. How I mourned and cried over it ! and who 
ever dreamed that it was anything but a mistake that had made me give it 
the laudanum ? but it 's one of the few things that I 'm glad of now. I 
am not sorry to this day ; he, at least, is out of pain. What better than 



death could I give him, poor child ? After a while the cholera came, and 
Captain Stuart died ; everybody died that wanted to live ; and I — I, 
though I went down to death's door — / lived! Then I was sold, and 
passed from hand to hand, till I grew faded and wrinkled, and I had a 
fever ; and then this wretch bought me, and brought me here — and here 

The woman stopped. She had hurried on through her story with a 
wild, passionate utterance ; sometimes seeming to address it to Tom, and 
sometimes speaking as in a soliloquy. So vehement and overpowering 
was the force with which she spoke that, for a season, Tom was beguiled 
even from the pain of his wounds ; and, raising himself on one elbow, 
watched her as she paced restlessly up and down, her long black hair 
swaying heavily about her as she moved. 

" You tell me," she said, after a pause, " that there is a God — a God 
that looks down and sees all these things. Maybe it 's so. The sisters in 
the convent used to tell me of a day of judgment, when everything is 
coming to light. Won't there be vengeance then ! 

"They think it's nothing what we suffer — nothing what our children 
suffer ! It 's all a small matter ; yet I 've walked the streets when it 
seemed as if I had misery enough in my one heart to sink the city. I 've 
wished the houses would fall on me, or the stones sink under me. Yes ! 
and in the judgment-day I will stand up before God, a witness against 
those that have ruined me and my children, body and soul ! 

" When I was a girl, I thought I was religious ; I used to love God and 
prayer. Now I 'm a lost soul, pursued by devils that torment me day and 
night; they keep pushing me on and on — and I'll do it, too, some of 
these days ! " she said, clenching her hand, while an insane light glanced 
in her heavy black eyes. " I '11 send him where he belongs — a short way, 
too — one of these nights, if they burn me alive for it ! " A wild, long 
laugh ran through the deserted room, and ended in an hysteric sob ; she 
threw herself on the floor in convulsive sobbings and struggles. 

In a few moments the frenzy fit seemed to pass off; she rose slowly, 
and seemed to collect herself. 

"Can I do anything more for you, my poor fellow?" she said, 
approaching where Tom lay. " Shall I give you some more water ? " 

There was a graceful and compassionate sweetness in her voice and 
manner, as she said this, that formed a strange contrast with the former 

Tom drank the water, and looked earnestly and pitifully into her face. 

" O missis, I wish you 'd go to Him that can give you living waters ! " 

" Go to him ! Where is he ? Who is he ? " said Cassy. 

" Him that you read of to me — the Lord." 

" I used to see the picture of him over the altar, when I was a girl," 
said Cassy, her dark eyes fixing themselves in an expression of mournful 
reverie; "but he isn't here! there's nothing here but sin, and long, long, 
long despair ! Oh ! " She laid her hand on her breast and drew in her 
breath, as if to lift a heavy weight. 

Tom looked as if he would speak again, but she cut him short with 
a decided gesture. 

" Don't talk, my poor fellow. Try to sleep, if you can." And, placing 
water in his reach, and making wliatever little arrangements for his 
comfort she could, Cassy left the shed. 




" And slight, withal, may be the things that bring 
Back on the heart the weight which it would fling 
Aside for ever ; it may be a sound, 
A flower, the wind, the ocean, which shall wound — 
Striking the electric chain wherewith we're darkly bound." 

Childe Harold 's Pilgrimage, Canto 4, 

The sitting-room of Legree's establishment was a large, long room, with a 
wide, ample fireplace. It had once been hung with a showy and 
expensive paper, which now hung mouldering, torn and discoloured, from 
the damp walls. The place had that peculiar sickening, unwholesome 
smell, compounded of mingled damp, dirt, and decay, which one often 
notices in close old houses. The wall paper was defaced, in spots, by 
slops of beer and wine ; or garnished with chalk memorandums, and long 
sums footed up, as if somebody had been practising arithmetic there. In 
the fireplace stood a brazier full of burning charcoal; for although the 
weather was not cold, the evenings always seemed damp and chilly in that 
great room ; and Legree, moreover, wanted a place to Hght his cigars, and 
heat his water for punch. The ruddy glare of the charcoal displayed the 
confused and unpromising aspect of the room — saddles, bridles, several 
sorts of harness, riding-whips, overcoats, and various articles of clothing, 
scattered up and down the room in confused variety; and the dogs of 
which we have before spoken had encamped themselves among them, 
to suit their own taste and convenience. 

Legree was just mixing himself a tumbler of punch, pouring his hot 
water from a cracked and broken-nosed pitcher, grumbling as he did so, — 

" Plague on that Sambo, to kick up this yer row between me and the 
new hands ! That fellow won't be fit to work for a week now — right 
in the press of the season ! " 

" Yes, just hke you," said a voice behind his chair. It was the woman 
Cassy who had stolen upon his soUloquy. 

" Ha ! you she-devil ! you 've come back, have you ? " 

" Yes, I have," she said coolly ; " come to have my own way, too ! " 

" You lie, you jade ! I '11 be up to my word. Either behave yourself, 
or stay down to the quarters, and fare and work with the rest." 

" I 'd rather, ten thousand times," said the woman, " live in the dirtiest 
hole at the quarters than be under your hoof ! " 

"But you are under my hoof, for all that," said he, turning upon her, 
with a savage grin ; " that 's one comfort. So, sit down here on my knee, 
my dear, and hear to reason," said he, laying hold on her wrist. 

" Simon Legree, take care ! " said the woman, with a sharp flash of her 
eye, a glance so wild and insane in its light as to be almost appalUng. 
" You 're afraid of me, Simon," she said deliberately, " and you 've reason 
to be ! But be careful, for I 've got the devil in me ! " 

These last words she whispered in a hissing tone close to his ear. 

" Get out ! I believe, to my soul, you have ! " said Legree, pushing her 
from him, and looking uncomfortably at her. " After all, Cassy," he said, 
"why can't you be friends with me as you used to ? " 

" Used to ! " said she bitterly. She stopped jfeort — a world of droking 
feelings, rising in her heart, kept her silent. 


Cassy had always kept over Legree the kind of influence that a strong 
impassioned woman can ever keep over the most brutal man ; but, of late, 
she had grown more and more irritable and restless under the hideous yoke 
of her servitude, and her irritability, at times, broke out into raving insanity ; 
and this liability made her a sort of object of dread to Legree, who had 
that superstitious horror of insane persons which is common to coarse and 
uninstructed minds. When Legree brought Emmeline to the house, 
all the smouldering embers of womanly feeling flashed up in the worn 
heart of Cassy, and she took part with the girl; and a fierce quarrel 
ensued between her and Legree. Legree, in a fury, swore she should be 
put to field-service if she would not be peaceable. Cassy, with proud 
scorn, declared she would go to the field. And she worked there one day, 
as we have described, to show how perfectly she scorned the threat. 

Legree was secretly uneasy all day, for Cassy had an influence over him 
from which he could not free himself. When she presented her basket at 
the scales, he had hoped for some concession, and addressed her in a sort 
of half conciliatory, half scornful tone; and she answered with the bitterest 

The outrageous treatment of poor Tom had roused her still more ; and 
she had followed Legree to the house with no particular intention but 
to upbraid him for his brutality. 

" I wish, Cassy," said Legree, " you 'd behave yourself decently." 

" You talk about behaving decently ! And what have you been doing ? 
You, who haven't even sense enough to keep from spoiling one of your 
best hands, right in the most pressing season, just for your devilish 
temper ! " 

"I was a fool, it's a fact, to let any such brangle come up," said 
Legree; "but when the boy set up his will, he had to be broke in." 

'' I reckon you won't break him in ! " 

"Won't I?" said Legree, rising passionately. "I'd like to know if 
I won't ? He '11 be the first nigger that ever came round me ! I '11 break 
every bone in his body, but he shall give up ! " 

Just then the door opened, and Sambo entered. He came forward, 
bowing, and holding out something in a paper. 

" What 's that, you dog ? " said Legree. 

" It 's a witch thing, mas'r ! " 

"A what?" 

"Something that niggers gets from witches. Keeps 'em from feelin' 
when they 's flogged. He had it tied round his neck with a black string." 

Legree, like most godless and cruel men, was superstitious. He took 
the paper, and opened it uneasily. 

There dropped out of it a silver dollar, and a long shining curl of fair 
hair — hair which, like a living thing, twined itself round Legree's fingers. 

" Damnation ! " he screamed, in sudden passion, stamping on the floor, 
and pulling furiously at the hair, as if it burned him. " Where did this 
come from ? Take it off" ! — burn it up ! — burn it up ! " he screamed, 
tearing it off, and throwing it into the charcoal. " \\Tiat did you bring it 
to me for ? " 

Sambo stood with his heavy mouth wide open, and aghast with wonder ; 
and Cassy, who was preparing to leave the apartment, stopped, and looked 
at him in perfect amazement. 

" Don't you bring me any more of your devilish things ! " said he, 
shaking his fist at Sambo, who retreated hastily towards the door; and 



picking up the silver dollar, he sent it smashing though the window-pane 
out into the darkness. 

Sambo was glad to make his escape. When he was gone, Legree 
seemed a little ashamed of his fit of alarm. He sat doggedly down in his 
chair, and began sullenly sipping his tumbler of punch. 

Cassy prepared herself for going out, unobserved by him ; and slipped 
. away to minister to poor Tom, as we have already related. 

And what was the matter with Legree? And what was there in a 
simple curl of fair hair to appal that brutal man, familiar with every form 
of cruelty ? To answer this, we must carry the reader backward in his 
history. Hard and reprobate as the godless man seemed now, there had 
been a time when he had been rocked on the bosom of a mother — 
cradled with prayers and pious hymns — his now seared brow bedewed 
with the waters of holy baptism. In early childhood a fair-haired woman 
had led him, at the sound of Sabbath bell, to worship and to pray. Far 
in New England that mother had trained her only son with long, un- 
wearied love, and patient prayers. Born of a hard-tempered sire on 
whom that gentle woman had wasted a world of unvalued love, Legree 
had followed in the steps of his father. Boisterous, unruly, and 
tyrannical, he despised all her counsel, and would none of her reproof; 
and, at an early age, broke from her to seek his fortunes at sea. He 
never came home but once after ; and then his mother, with the yearning 
of a heart that must love something, and has nothing else to love, clung to 
him, and sought, with passionate prayers and entreaties, to win him from 
a life of sin to his soul's eternal good. 

That was Legree's day of grace. Then good angels called him ; then he 
was almost persuaded, and Mercy held him by the hand. His heart inly 
relented — there was a conflict — but sin got the victory, and he set all the 
force of his rough nature against the conviction of his conscience. 

He drank and swore, was wilder and more brutal than ever. And one 
night, when his mother, in the last agony of her despair, knelt at his feet, 
he spurned her from him, threw her senseless on the floor, and, with 
brutal curses, fled to his ship. The next Legree heard of his mother was 
when one night, as he was carousing among drunken companions, a letter 
was put into his hand. He opened it, and a lock of long, curling hair fell 
from it, and twined about his fingers. The letter told him his mother was 
dead, and that, dying, she blessed and forgave him. 

There is a dread, unhallowed necromancy of evil, that turns things 
sweetest and holiest to phantoms of horror and affright. That pale, loving 
mother — her dying prayers, her forgiving love — wrought in that demoniac 
heart of sin only as a damning sentence, bringing with it a fearful looking- 
for of judgment and fiery indignation. Legree burned the hair and burned 
the letter ; and when he saw them hissing and crackling in the flame, inly 
shuddered as he thought of everlasting fires. He tried to drink and revel, 
and swear away the memory ; but often in the deep night, whose solemn 
stillness arraigns the bad soul in forced communion with herself, he had 
seen that pale mother rising by his bedside, and felt the soft twining 
of that hair around his fingers till the cold sweat would roll down his face, 
and he would spring from his bed in horror. Ye who have wondered to 
hear, in the same evangel, that God is love, and that God is a consuming 
fire, see ye not how, to the soul resolved in evil, perfect love is the most 
fearful torture, the seal and sentence of the direst despair ? 

" Blast it ! " said Legree to himself, as he sipped his liquor \ " where did 


he get that ? If it didn't look just Uke — whoo ! I thought I 'd forgot that. 
Curse me if I think there 's any such thing as forgetting anything, anyhow 
— hang it ! I 'm lonesome ! I mean to call Em. She hates me — the 
monkey ! — I don't care — I '11 7?iake her come ! " 

Legree stepped out into a large entry, which went upstairs by what had 
formerly been a superb winding staircase ; but the passage-way was dirty 
and dreary, encumbered with boxes and unsightly litter. The stairs, 
uncarpeted, seemed winding up, in the gloom, to nobody knew where ! 
The pale moonlight streamed through a shattered fanlight over the door ; 
the air was unwholesome and chilly, like that of a vault. 

Legree stopped at the foot of the stairs, and heard a voice singing. It 
seemed strange and ghostlike in that dreary old house, perhaps because of 
the already tremulous state of his nerves. Hark ! what is it ? 

A wild, pathetic voice chants a hymn common among the slaves : — 

O there '11 be mourning, mourning, mourning, 

O there '11 be mourning at the judgment-seat of Christ ! 

"Blast the girl!" said Legree. "I'll choke her. Em! Em!" he 
called harshly; but only a mocking echo from the walls answered him. 
The sweet voice still sang on : — 

Parents and children there shall part ! 

Parents and children there shall part ! 

Shall part to meet no more ! 

And clear and loud swelled through the empty halls the refrain — 

O there '11 be mourning, mourning, mourning, 

O there '11 be mourning at the judgment-seat of Christ ! 

Legree stopped. He would have been ashamed to tell of it, but large 
drops of sweat stood on his forehead, his heart beat heavy and thick with 
fear; he even thought he saw something white rising and glimmering in 
the room before him, and shuddered to think what if the form of his dead 
mother should suddenly appear to him. 

" I know one thing," he said to himself, as he stumbled back in the 
sitting-room, and sat down ; " I' 11 let that fellow alone after this I What 
did I want of his cussed paper. I believe I am bewitched, sure enough ! 
I 've been shivering and sweating ever since ! Where did he get that hair? 
It couldn't have been that! I burnt tJmt up, I Icnow I did! It would 
be a joke if hair could rise from the dead ! " 

Ah, Legree ! that golden tress was charmed ; each hair had in it a spell 
of terror and remorse for thee, and was used by a mightier power to bind 
thy cruel hands from inflicting uttermost evil on the helpless ! 

" I say," said Legree, stamping and whistling to the dogs, " wake up, 
some of you, and keep me company ! " but the dogs only opened one eye 
at him sleepily, and closed it again. 

" I '11 have Sambo and Quimbo up here to sing, and dance one of their 
hell-dances, and keep off these horrid notions," said Legree ; and, putting 
on his hat, he went on to the verandah, and blew a horn, with which he 
commonly summoned his two sable drivers. 

Legree was often wont, when in a gracious humour, to get these two 
worthies into his sitting-room, and, after warming them up with whiskey, 
amuse himself by setting them to singing, dancing, or fighting, as the 
humour took him. 

It was between one and two o'clock at night, as Cassy was returning 
from her ministrations to poor Tom, that she heard the sound of wild 


shrieking, whooping, hallooing, and singing from the sitting-room, mingled 
with the barking of dogs and other symptoms of general uproar. 

She came up on the verandah steps, and looked in. Legree and both 
the drivers, in a state of furious intoxication, were singing, whooping, 
upsetting chairs, and making all manner of ludicrous and horrid grimaces 
at each other. 

She rested her small, slender hand on the window-blind, and looked 
fixedly at them. There was a world of anguish, scorn, and fierce bitterness 
in her black eyes as she did so. "Would it be a sin to rid the world 
of such a wretch ? " she said to herself. 

She turned hurriedly away, and, passing round to a back door, glided 
upstairs, and tapped at EmmeUne's door. 



Cassy entered the room, and found Emmeline sitting, pale with fear, in 
the furthest corner of it. As she came in, the girl started up nervously ; 
but, on seeing who it was rushed forward, and, catching her arm, said, "O 

Cassy, is it you ? I 'm so glad you 've come ! I was afraid it was . 

Oh, you don't know what a horrid noise there has been downstairs all this 
evening ! " 

" I ought to know," said Cassy drily. " I 've heard it often enough ! " 

" O Cassy, do tell me ! couldn't we get away from this place ? I don't 
care where — into the swamp among the snakes, anywhere ! Couldtit we 
get somewhere away from here ! " 

" Nowhere but into our graves," said Cassy. 

" Did you ever try ? " 

" I 've seen enough of trying, and what comes of it," said Cassy. 

" I 'd be willing to live in the swamps, and gnaw the bark from trees. I 
an't afraid of snakes ! I 'd rather have one near me than him," said 
Emmeline eagerly. 

"There have been a good many here of your opinion," said Cassy. 
"But you could not stay in the swamps — you'd be tracked by the dogs, 
and brought back, and then — then " 

"What would he do?" said the girl, looking with breathless interest 
into her face. 

" What wouldfit he do, you 'd better ask," said Cassy. " He 's learned 
his trade well among the pirates in the West Indies. You wouldn't sleep 
much if I should tell you things I 've seen — things that he tells of, some- 
times, for good jokes. I 've heard screams here that I haven't been able 
to get out of my head for weeks and weeks. There's a place way out 
down by the quarters, where you can see a black, blasted tree, and the 
ground all covered with black ashes. Ask any one what was done there, 
and see if they will dare to tell you." 

" Oh, what do you mean ? " 

"I won't tell you. I hate to think of it. And I tell you, the Lord 
only knows what we may see to-morrow, if that poor fellow holds out as 
he 's begun." 

" Horrid I " said Emmeline, every drop of blood receding from her 
cheeks. " O Cassy, do tell me what I shall do ! " 


" What I 've done. Do the best you can ; do what you must, and make 
it up in hating and cursing." 

"He wanted to make me drink some of his hateful brandy," said 
Emmeline ; " and I hate it so " 

" You 'd better drink," said Cassy. " I hated it, too ; and now I can't 
live without it. One must have something ; things don't look so dreadful 
when you take that." 

"Mother used to tell me never to touch any such thing," said Em- 

" Mother told you ! " said Cassy, with a thrilling and bitter emphasis on 
the word mother. " What use is it for mothers to say anything ? You are 
all to be bought and paid for, and your souls belong to whoever gets you. 
That's the way it goes. I say, drmk brandy; drink all you can, and it'll 
make things come easier." 

" O Cassy ! do pity me ! " 

" Pity you ! don't I ? Haven't I a daughter ? Lord knows where she 
is, and whose she is now ! Going the way her mother went before her, I 
suppose, and that her children must go after her ! There 's no end to the 
curse for ever ! " 

" I wish I 'd never been born ! " said Emmeline, wringing her hands. 

" That 's an old wish with me," said Cassy. " I 've got used to wishing 
that. I 'd die, if I dared to," she said, looking out into the darkness with 
that still, fixed despair, which was the habitual expression of her face when 
at rest. 

" It would be wicked to kill one's self," said Emmeline. 

" I don't know why ; no wickeder than things we live and do day after 
day. But the sisters told me things when I was in the convent that make 
me afraid to die. If it would only be the end of us, why, then " 

Emmeline turned away, and hid her face in her hands. 

While this conversation was passing in the chamber, Legree, overcome 
with his carouse, had sunk to sleep in the room below. Legree was not 
an habitual drunkard. His coarse, strong nature craved and could endure 
a continual stimulation, that would have utterly wrecked and crazed a finer 
one. But a deep underlying spirit of cautiousness prevented his often 
yielding to appetite in such measure as to lose control of himself. 

This night, however, in his feverish efforts to banish from his mind those 
fearful elements of woe and remorse which woke within him, he had 
indulged more than common ; so that when he had discharged his sable 
attendants, he fell heavily on a settle in the room, and was sound asleep. 

Oh, how dares the bad soul to enter the shadowy world of sleep ? — that 
land whose dim outlines lie so fearfully near to the mystic scene of 
retribution ! Legree dreamed. In his heavy and feverish sleep a veiled 
form stood beside him, and laid a cold, soft hand upon him. He thought 
he knew who it was, and shuddered with creeping horror, though the face 
was veiled. Then he thought he felt thai hair twining round his fingers ; 
and then, that it slid smoothly round his neck, and tightened, and tightened, 
and he could not draw his breath ; and then he thought voices wMspered 
to him — whispers that chilled him with horror. Then it seemed to him 
he was on the edge of a frightful abyss, holding on and struggling in 
mortal fear, while dark hands stretched up, and were pulling him over; 
and Cassy came behind him laughing, and pushed him. And then rose 
up that solemn veiled figure, and drew aside the veil. It was his mother ; 
and she turned away from him, and he fell down, down, down, amidst a 


confused noise of shrieks and groans, and shouts of demon laughter — and 
Legree awoke. 

Calmly the rosy hue of dawn was stealing into the room. The morning 
star stood with its solemn, holy eye of light, looking down on the man of 
sin, from out the brightening sky. Oh, with what freshness, what solemnity 
and beauty, is each new day born ; as if to say to insensate men, " Behold ! 
thou hast one more chance ! Strive for immortal glory ! " There is no 
speech nor language where this voice is not heard ; but the bold, bad man 
heard it not. He woke with an oath and a curse. What to him was the 
gold and purple, the daily miracle of morning ! What to him the sanctity 
of that star which the Son of God has hallowed as his own emblem ! 
Brute-like, he saw without perceiving ; and, stumbling forward, poured out 
a tumbler of brandy, and drank half of it. 

" I 've had a h — 1 of a night ! " he said to Cassy, who just then entered 
from an opposite door. 

"You'll get plenty of the same sort by-and-bye," said she dryly. 

" What do you mean, you minx ? " 

" You '11 find out one of these days," returned Cassy, in the same tone. 
" Now, Simon, I 've one piece of advice to give you." 

" The devil you have ! " 

" My advice is," said Cassy steadily, as she began adjusting some things 
about the room, " that you let Tom alone." 

" What business is 't of yours ? " 

" What ? To be sure, I don't know what it should be. If you want to 
pay twelve hundred for a fellow, and use him right up in the press of the 
season, just to serve your own spite, it 's no business of mine. I 've done 
what I could for him." 

" You have ? What business have you meddling in my matters ? " 

" None, to be sure. I 've saved you some thousands of dollars, at different 
times, by taking care of your hands — that 's all the thanks I get. If your 
crop comes shorter into market than any of theirs, you won't lose your bet, 
I suppose ? Tompkins won't lord it over you, I suppose ; and you '11 pay 
down your money like a lady, won't you ? I think I see you doing it ! " 

Legree, like many other planters, had but one form of ambition — to 
have in the heaviest crop of the season ; and he had several bets on this 
very present season pending in the next town. Cassy, therefore, with 
woman's tact, touched the only string that could be made to vibrate, 

" Well, I '11 let him off at what he 's got," said Legree ; " but he shall 
beg my pardon, and promise better fashions." 

" That he won't do," said Cassy. 

"Won't, eh?" 

" No, he won't," said Cassy. 

" I 'd like to know why, mistress," said Legree, in the extreme of scorn. 

" Because he 's done right, and he knows it, and won't say he 's done 

"Who a cuss cares what he knows? The nigger shall say what I please, 
or " 

" Or you '11 lose your bet on the cotton-crop, by keeping him out of the 
field just at this very press." 

" But he will give up, course he will ; don't I know what niggers is ? 
He '11 beg like a dog this morning." 

" He won't, Simon ; you don't know this kind. You may kill him by 
inches, you won't get the first word of confession out of him." 


" We '11 see. Where is he ? " said Legree, going out. 

" In the waste-room of the gin-house," said Cassy. 

Legree, though he talked so stoutly to Cassy, still sallied forth from the 
house with a degree of misgiving which was not common with him. His 
dreams of the past night, mingled with Cassy's prudential suggestions, 
considerably affected his mind. He resolved that nobody should be 
witness of his encounter with Tom, and determined, if he could not 
subdue him by bullying, to defer his vengeance to be wreaked in a more 
convenient season. 

The solemn light of dawn, the angelic glory of the morning star, had 
looked in through the rude window of the shed where Tom was lying, and, 
as if descending on that star-beam, came the solemn words, " I am the 
root and offspring of David, and the bright and morning star." The 
mysterious warnings and intimations of Cassy, so far from discouraging his 
soul, in the end had roused it as with a heavenly call. He did not know 
but that the day of his death was dawning in the sky ; and his heart throbbed 
with solemn throes of joy and desire, as he thought that the wondrous all 
of which he had often pondered, the great white throne, with its ever- 
radiant rainbow ; the white-robed multitude, with voices as many waters ; 
the crowns, the palms, the harps — might all break upon his vision before 
that sun should set again ; and, therefore, without shuddering or trembling, 
he heard the voice of his persecutor as he drew near. 

" Well, my boy," said Legree, with a contemptuous kick, " how do you 
find yourself? Didn't I tell yer I could I'arn yer a thing or two? How 
do yer like it, eh ? How did yer whaling agree with yer, Tom ? An't 
quite so crank as ye was last night ? Ye couldn't treat a poor sinner now 
to a bit of a sermon, could yer, eh ? " 

Tom answered nothing. 

*' Get up, you beast ! " said Legree, kicking him again. 

This was a difficult matter for one so bruised and faint; and as Tom 
made efforts to do so, Legree laughed brutally. 

"What makes ye so spry this morning, Tom? Cotched cold, maybe, 
last night ? " 

Tom by this time had gained his feet, and was confronting his master 
with a steady, unmoved front. 

'* The devil you can ! " said Legree, looking him over. I believe you 
haven't got enough yet. Now, Tom, get right down on yer knees and beg 
my pardon for yer shines last night." 

Tom did not move. 

" Down, you dog ! " said Legree, striking him with his riding-whip. 

" Mas'r Legree," said Tom, " I can't do it. I did only what I thought 
was right. I shall do just so again, if ever the time comes. I never will 
do a cruel thing, come what may." 

"Yes; but ye don't know what may come. Master Tom. Ye think 
what you 've got is something. I tell you 't an't anything — nothing 't all. 
How would ye like to be tied to a tree, and have a slow fire lit up around 
ye ? Wouldn't that be pleasant — eh, Tom ? " 

"Mas'r," said Tom, "I know ye can do dreadful things; but" — he 
stretched himself upward, and clasped his hands — " but after ye 've killed 
the body, there an't no more ye can do. And oh, there's all eternity to 
come after that ! " 

Eternity — the word thrilled through the black man's soul with light 
and power as he spoke — it thrilled through the sinner's soul, too, like the 


bite of a scorpion, Legree gnashed on him with his teeth, but rage kept 
him silent; and Tom, like a man disenthralled, spoke in a clear and 
cheerful voice. 

" Mas'r Legree, as ye bought me, I '11 be a true and faithful servant to 
ye. 1 11 give ye all the work of my hands, all my time, all my strength ; 
but my soul I won't give up to mortal man. I will hold on to the Lord, 
and put his commands before all, die or live, you may be sure on't. 
Mas'r Legree, I an't a grain afeard to die. I 'd as soon die as not. Ye 
may whip me, starve me, burn me — it'll only send me sooner where I 
want to go." 

" I'll make ye give out, though, 'fore I 've done !" said Legree, in a rage. 

" I shall have help^^ said Tom. " You '11 never do it." 

" Who the devil 's going to help you ? " said Legree scornfully. 

" The Lord Almighty ! " said Tom. 

" D — n you ! " said Legree, as with one blow of his fist he felled Tom 
to the earth. 

A cold soft hand fell on Legree's at this moment. He turned — it was 
Cassy's ; but the cold soft touch recalled his dream of the night before, 
and, flashing through the chambers of his brain, came all the fearful 
images of the night-watches, with a portion of the horror that accompanied 

" Will you be a fool ? " said Cassy in French. " Let him go ! Let me 
alone to get him fit to be in the field again. Isn't it just as I told you ? " 

They say the alligator, the rhinoceros, though inclosed in bullet-proof 
mail, have each a spot where they are vulnerable; and fierce, reckless, 
unbelieving reprobates have commonly this point in superstitious dread. 

Legree turned away, determined to let the point go for the time. 

" Well, have it your own way," he said doggedly to Cassy. 

" Hark ye ! " he said to Tom, " I won't deal with ye now, because the 
business is pressing, and I want all my hands ; but I never forget. I '11 
score it against ye, and sometime I '11 have my pay out o' yer old black hide 
■ — mind ye ! " 

Legree turned, and went out. 

" There you go," said Cassy, looking darkly after him; " your reckoning 's 
to come yet ! My poor fellow, how are you ? " 

" The Lord God hath sent his angel, and shut the lion's mouth for this 
time," said Tom. 

"For this time, to be sure," said Cassy; "but now you've got his 
ill-will upon you, to follow you, day in and day out, hanging like a dog on 
your throat, sucking your blood, bleeding away your life, drop by drop ! 
I know the man 1 " 



" No matter witli what solemnities he may have been devoted upon the altar of slavery,, 
the moment he touches the sacred soil of Britain, the altar and the god sink together in 
the dust, and he stands redeemed, regenerated, and disenthralled, by the irresistible- 
genius of universal emancipation," — CuRRAN. 

A WHILE we must leave Tom in the hands of his persecutors, while we 
turn to pursue the fortunes of George and his wife, whom we left in friendly 
bands in a farm-house on the roadside. 


Tom Loker we left groaning and touzling in a most immaculately clean 
Quaker bed, under the motherly supervision of Aunt Dorcas, who found 
him to the full as tractable a patient as a sick bison. 

Imagine a tall, dignified, spiritual woman, whose clear, muslin cap 
shades waves of silvery hair, parted on a broad, clear forehead, which 
overarches thoughtful grey eyes; a snowy handkerchief of lisse crape is 
folded neatly across her bosom ; her glossy brown silk dress rustles peace- 
fully as she glides up and down the chamber. 

" The devil ! " says Tom Loker, giving a great throw to the bedclothes. 

"I must request thee, Thomas, not to use such language," says Aunt 
Dorcas, as she quietly re-arranges the bed. 

" Well, I won't, granny, if I can help it," says Tom ; " but it is enough 
to make a fellow swear, so cursedly hot ! " 

Dorcas removed a comforter from the bed, straightened the clothes 
again, and tucked them in till Tom looked something like a chrysalis, 
remarking, as she did so — 

" I wish, friend, thee would leave off cursing and swearing, and think 
upon thy ways." 

" What the devil," said Tom, " should I think of thon for ? Last 
thing ever / want to think of — hang it all ! " And Tom flounced over, 
untucking and disarranging everything in a manner frightful to behold. 

" That fellow and gal are here, I s'pose ? " said he sullenly, after a pause. 

" They are so," said Dorcas. 

"They'd better be off up the lake," said Tom; " the quicker the better." 

" Probably they will do so," said Aunt Dorcas, knitting peacefully. 

"And hark ye," said Tom; "we've got correspondents in Sandusky 
that watch the boats for us. I don't care if I tell now. I hope they will 
get away, just to spite Marks— the cursed puppy ! — d — n him ! " 

" Thomas ! " said Dorcas. 

" I tell you, granny, if you bottle a fellow up too tight, I shall split," 
said Tom. " But about the gal — tell 'em to dress her up some way so 's 
to alter her. Her description 's out in Sandusky." 

"We will attend to that matter," said Dorcas, with characteristic 

As we at this place take leave of Tom Loker, we may as well say that, 
having lain three weeks at the Quaker dwelling, sick with a rheumatic 
fever, which set in in company with his other afflictions, Tom arose from 
his bed a somewhat sadder and wiser man ; and, in place of slave-catching, 
betook himself to life in one of the new settlements, where his talents 
developed themselves more happily in trapping bears, wolves, and other 
inhabitants of the forest, in which he made himself quite a name in the 
land. Tom always spoke reverently of the Quakers. " Nice people," he 
would say ; " wanted to convert me, but couldn't come it exactly. But 
tell ye what, stranger, they do fix up a sick fellow first-rate, no mistake ! 
Make jist the tallest kind o' broth and nicknacks." 

As Tom had informed them that their party would be looked for in 
Sandusky, it was thought prudent to divide them. Jim, with his old 
mother, was forwarded separately ; and, a night or two after, George and 
Eliza, with their child, were driven privately into Sandusky, and lodged be- 
neath a hospitable roof, preparatory to taking their last passage on the lake. 

Their night was now far spent, and the morning star of hberty rose fair 
before them. Liberty ! electric word ! What is it ? Is there anything 
more in it than a name, a rhetorical flourish ? \Vhy, men and women of 


America, does your heart's blood thrill at that word, for which your fathers 
bled and your braver mothers were willing that their best and noblest 
should die ? 

Is there anything in it glorious and dear to a nation, that is not also 
glorious and dear for a man ? What is freedom to a nation, but freedom 
to the individuals in it? What is freedom to that young man who sits 
there with his arms folded over his broad chest, the tint of African blood 
in his cheek, its dark fires in his eye — what is freedom to George Harris ? 
To your fathers, freedom was the right of a nation to be a nation. To 
him, it is the righi of a man to be a man and not a brute ; the right to 
call the wife of his bosom his wife, and to protect her from lawless 
violence ; the right to protect and educate his child ; the right to have a 
home of his own, a religion of his own, a character of his own, unsubject 
to the will of another. All these thoughts were rolling and seething in 
George's breast, as he was pensively leaning his head on his hand, watching 
his wife, as she was adapting to her slender and pretty form the articles of 
man's attire, in which it was deemed safest she should make her escape. 

" Now for it," said she, as she stood before the glass and shook down 
her silky abundance of black curly hair. " I say, George, it 's almost a 
pity, isn't it ? " she said, as she held up some of it playfully. " Pity it 's 
all got to come off?" 

George smiled sadly, and made no answer. 

Eliza turned to the glass, and the scissors glittered as one long lock 
after another was detached from her head. 

"There, now, that'll do," she said, taking up a hair-brush; "now for a 
few fancy touches." 

" There, an't I a pretty young fellow ? " she saidj turning round to herj 
husband, laughing and blushing at the same time. 

" You always will be pretty, do what you will," said George. 

" What does make you so sober ?" said Eliza, kneeling on one knee and 
laying her hand on his. We are only within twenty-four hours of Canac 
they say. Only a day and a night on the lake, and then — oh, then ! ■ 

" O Eliza ! " said George, drawing her towards him ; " that is it ! Now| 
my fate is all narrowing down to a point. To come so near, to be almos^ 
in sight, and then lose all. I should never live under it, Eliza." 

" Don't fear," said his wife hopefully. " The good Lord would not have 
brought us so far if he didn't mean to carry us through. I seem to fee| 
him with us, George." 

" You are a blessed woman, Eliza ! " said George, clasping her with 
convulsive grasp. " But — oh, tell me ! can this great mercy be for us 3 
Will these years and years of misery come to an end ? — shall we be free ? '| 

" I am sure of it, George," said Eliza, looking upward, while tears of 
hope and enthusiasm shone on her long, dark lashes. " I feel it in me^j 
that God is going to bring us out of bondage this very day." 

" I will believe you, Eliza," said George, rising suddenly up. " I 
believe ; come, let 's be off. Well, indeed," said he, holding her off aji 
arm's length, and looking admiringly at her, "you are a pretty little fellow.] 
That crop of little, short curls is quite becoming. Put on your cap. So- 
a little to one side. I never saw you look quite so pretty. But it 's almost! 
time for the carriage ; I wonder if Mrs. Smyth has got Harry rigged ? " 

The door opened, and a respectable, middle-aged woman entered 
leading little Harry, dressed in girl's clothes. 

" What a pretty girl he makes ! " said Eliza, turning him round. " W| 


call him Harriet, you see; don't the name come nicely?" The child 
stood gravely regarding his mother in her new and strange attire, observing 
a profound silence, and occasionally drawing deep sighs, and peeping at 
her from under his dark curls. 

"Does Harry know mamma?" said Eliza, stretching her hands towards 

The child clung shyly to the woman. 

" Come, Ehza, why do you try to coax him, when you know that he has 
got to be kept away from you ?" 

"I know it's foolish," said Eliza; "yet I can't bear to have him turn 
away from me. But come — where 's my cloak? Here — how is it men 
put on cloaks, George?" 

" You must wear it so," said her husband, throwing it over his shoulders. 

" So, then," said Eliza, imitating the motion ; " and I must stamp, and 
take long steps, and try to look saucy." 

" Don't exert yourself," said George. " There is, now and then, a modest 
young man ; and I think it would be easier for you to act that character." 

"And these gloves! mercy upon us!" said Eliza, "why, my hands are 
lost in them." 

"I advise you to keep them on pretty strictly," said George. "Your 
little slender paw might bring us all out. Now, Mrs. Smyth, you are to 
go under our charge, and be our aunty, you mind." 

" I 've heard," said Mrs. Smyth, " that there have been men down, 
warning all the packet-captains against a man and woman, with a little boy." 

"They have !" said George. " Well, if we see any such people, we can 
tell them." 

A hack now drove to the door, and the friendly family who had received 
the fugitives crowded around them with farewell greetings. 

The disguises the party had assumed were in accordance with the hints 
of Tom Loker. Mrs. Smyth, a respectable woman from the settlement of 
Canada, whither they were fleeing, being fortunately about crossing the 
lake to return thither, had consented to appear as the aunt of little Harry ; 
and, in order to attach him to her, he had been allowed to remain, the 
last two days, under her sole charge ; an extra amount of petting, joined 
to an indefinite amount of seed-cakes and candy, had cemented a very 
close attachment on the part of the young gentleman. 

The hack drove to the wharf. The two young men, as they appeared, 
walked up the plank into the boat, Eliza gallantly giving her arm to Mrs. 
Smyth, and George attending to their baggage. George was standing at 
the captain's office, settling for his party, when he overheard two men 
talking by his side. 

" I 've watched every one that came on board," said one, " and I know 
they 're not on this boat." 

The voice was that of the clerk of the boat. The speaker whom he 
addressed was our sometime friend Marks, who, with that valuable per- 
severance which characterized him, had come on to Sandusky, seeking 
whom he might devour. 

" You would scarcely know the woman from a white one," said Marks. 
" The man is a very light mulatto. He has a brand in one of his hands." 

The hand with which George was taking the tickets and change 
trembled a little; but he turned coolly around, fixed an unconcerned 
glance on the face of the speaker, and walked leisurely toward another 
part of the boat, where Eliza stood waiting for him. 


Mrs. Smyth, with Httle Harry, sought the seclusion of the ladies' cabin, 
where the dark beauty of the supposed little girl drew many flattering 
comments from the passengers. 

George had the satisfaction, as the bell rang out its farewell peal, to see 
Marks walk down the plank to the shore ; and drew a long sigh of relief 
when the boat had put a returnless distance between them. 

It was a superb day. The blue waves of Lake Erie danced rippling 
and sparkling in the sunlight. A fresh breeze blew from the shore, and 
the lordly boat ploughed her way right gallantly onward. 

Oh, what an untold world there is in one human heart ! Who thought, 
as George walked calmly up and down the deck of the steamer, with his 
shy companion at his side, of all that was burning in his bosom? The 
mighty good that seemed approaching seemed too good, too fair, even to 
be a reality; and he felt a jealous dread every moment of the day that 
something would rise to snatch it from him. 

But the boat swept on — hours fleeted, and, at last, clear and full rose 
the blessed English shore — shores charmed by a mighty spell — with one 
touch to dissolve every incantation of slavery, no matter in what language 
pronounced, or by what national power confirmed. 

George and his wife stood arm in arm as the boat neared the small 
town of Amherstberg, in Canada. His breath grew thick and short; a 
mist gathered before his eyes ; he silently pressed the little hand that lay 
trembling on his arm. The bell rang — the boat stopped. Scarcely seeing 
what he did, he looked out his baggage, and gathered his little party. 
The little company were landed on the shore. They stood still till the 
boat had cleared ; and then, with tears and embracings, the husband and 
wife, with their wondering child in their arms, knelt down and lifted up 
their hearts to God ! 

'T was something like the burst from death to life ; 

From the grave's cerements to the robes of heaven ; 
From sin's dominion, and from passion's strife, 

To the pure freedom of a soul forgiven ; 

Where all the bonds of death and hell are riven, 
And mortal puts on immortality, 
When Mercy's hand hath turned the golden key, 
. And Mercy's voice hath said, " Rejoice, thy soul is free." 

The little party were soon guided by Mrs. Smyth to the hospitable 
abode of a good missionary, whom Christian charity has placed here as a 
shepherd to the outcast and wandering, who are constantly finding an 
asylum on this shore. 

Who can speak the blessedness of that first day of freedom? Is not 
the sense of liberty a higher and finer one than any of the five? To 
move, speak, and breathe, go out and come in unwatched and free from 
danger ! Who can speak the blessings of that rest which comes down on 
the free man's pillow, under laws which insure to him the rights that God 
has given to man? How fair and precious to that mother was that 
sleeping child's face, endeared by the memory of a thousand dangers ! 
How impossible was it to sleep in the exuberant possession of such 
blessedness ! And yet these two had not one acre of ground, not a roof 
that they could call their own ; they had spent their all, to the last dollar. 
They had nothing more than the birds of the air, or the flowers of the 
field — yet they could not sleep for joy. " Oh ye v/ho take freedom from 
man, with what words shall ye answer it to God?" 




" Thanks be unto God, who giveth us the victory." 

Have not many of us in the weary way of life felt, in some hours, how far 
easier it were to die than to live ? 

The martyr, when faced even by a death of bodily anguish and horror, 
finds in the very terror of his doom a strong stimulant and tonic. There 
is a vivid excitement, a thrill and fervour, which may carry through any 
crisis of suffering that is the birth-hour of eternal glory and rest. 

But to live, to Avear on day after day of mean, bitter, low, harassing 
servitude, every nerve damped and depressed, every power of feeling 
gradually smothered — this long and wasting heart-martyrdom, this slow, 
daily bleeding away of the inward life, drop by drop, hour after hour — 
this is the true searching test of what there may be in man or woman. 

When Tom stood face to face with his persecutor, and heard his threats, 
and thought in his very soul that his hour was come, his heart swelled 
bravely in him, and he thought he could bear torture and fire, bear 
anything with the vision of Jesus and heaven just a step beyond ; but 
when he was gone, and the present excitement passed off, came back the 
pain of his bruised and weary limbs, came back the sense of his utterly 
degraded, hopeless, forlorn estate ; and the day passed wearily enough. 

Long before his wounds were healed, Legree insisted that he should be 
put to the regular field-work, and then came day after day of pain and 
weariness, aggravated by every kind of injustice and indignity that the 
ill-will of a mean and malicious mind could de\ise. Whoever, in our 
circumstances, has made trial of pain, even with all the alleviations which 
for us usually attend it, must know the irritation that comes with it. 

Tom no longer wondered at the habitual surliness of his associates ; 
nay, he found the placid, sunny temper, which had been the habitude of 
his life, broken in on and sorely strained by the inroads of the same 
thing. He had flattered himself on leisure to read his Bible, but there 
was no such thing as leisure there. In the height of the season, Legree 
did not hesitate to press all his hands through Sundays and weekdays 
ahke. Why shouldn't he ? He made more cotton by it, and gained his 
wager ; and if it wore out a few more hands, he could buy better ones. 

At first Tom used to read a verse or two of his Bible, by the flicker of 
the fire, after he had returned from his daily toil; but after the cruel 
treatment he received, he used to come home so exhausted that his head 
swam and his eyes failed when he tried to read, and he was fain to stretch 
himself down with the others in utter exhaustion. 

It is strange that the religious peace and trust which had upborne him 
hitherto should give way to tossings of soul and despondent darkness. 
The gloomiest problem of this mysterious life was constantly before his 
eyes : souls crushed and ruined, evil triumphant, and God silent. It was 
weeks and months that Tom wrestled, in his own soul, in darkness and 
sorrow. He thought of Miss Ophelia's letter to his Kentucky friends, 
and would pray earnestly that God would send him deliverance ; and then 
he would watch, day after day, in the vague hope of seeing somebody 
sent to redeem him ; and, when nobody came, he would crush back to his 


soul bitter thoughts — that it was vain to serve God, that God had for- 
gotten him. He sometimes saw Cassy : and sometimes, when summoned 
to the house, caught a ghmpse of the dejected form of EmmeHne, but 
held very little communion with either ; in fact, there was no time for him 
to commune with anybody. 

One evening he was sitting in utter dejection and prostration by a few 
decayed brands, where his coarse supper was baking. He put a few bits 
of brushwood on the fire, and strove to raise the light, and then drew his 
worn Bible from his pocket. There were all the marked passages which 
had thrilled his soul so often — words of patriarchs and seers, poets and 
sages, who from early time had spoken courage to man — voices from the 
great cloud of witnesses who ever surround us in the race of life. Had 
the word lost its power, or could the faihng eye and weary sense no longer 
answer to the touch of that mighty inspiration ? Heavily sighing, he put 
it in his pocket. A coarse laugh roused him ; he looked up — Legree was 
standing opposite to him. 

" Well, old boy," he said, " you find your religion don't work, it seems ! 
I thought I should get that through your wool at last ! " The cruel taunt 
was more than hunger, and cold, and nakedness. Tom was silent. 

"You were a fool," said Legree; "for I meant to do well by you when 
I bought you. You might have been better off than Sambo, or Quimbo 
either, and had easy times ; and, instead of getting cut up and thrashed 
every day or two, ye might have had liberty to lord it round, and cut up 
the other niggers ; and ye might have had, now and then, a good ■warming 
of whiskey-punch. Come, don't you think you 'd better be reasonable ! 
Heave that ar old pack of trash in the fire, and join my church ! " 

" The Lord forbid ! " said Tom fervently. 

" You see the Lord an't going to help you ; if he had been, he wouldn't 
have let me get you ! This yer religion is all a mess of lying trumpery, 
Tom. I know all about it. Ye 'd better hold to me ; I 'm somebody, 
and can do something ! " 

"No, mas'r," said Tom, "I'll hold on. The Lord may help me or not 
help \ but I '11 hold to him, and believe him to the last ! " 

" The more fool you ! " said Legree, spitting scornfully at him, and 
spurning him with his foot. " Never mind, I '11 chase you down yet, and 
bring you under, you '11 see ! " and Legree turned away. 

When a heavy weight presses the soul to the lowest level at which 
endurance is possible, there is an instant and desperate effort of every 
physical and moral nerve to throw off the weight ; and hence the heaviest 
anguish often precedes a return tide of joy and courage. So was it now 
v/ith Tom. The atheistic taunts of his cruel master sank his before- 
dejected soul to the lowest ebb; and though the hand of faith still 
held to the eternal Rock, it was with a numb, despairing grasp. Tom sat 
like one stunned at the fire. Suddenly ever)i;hing around him seemed to 
fade, and a vision rose before him of One crowned with thorns, buffeted 
and bleeding. Tom gazed in awe and wonder at the majestic patience of 
the face ; the deep pathetic eyes thrilled him to his inmost heart ; his soul 
woke as, with floods of emotion, he stretched out his hands and fell upon 
his knees; when gradually the vision changed, the sharp thorns became 
rays of glory, and in splendour inconceivable he saw that same face bending 
compassionately towards him, and a voice said, " He that overcometh shall 
sit down with me on my throne, even as I also overcame, and am set 
down with my Father on his throne." 


How long Tom lay there he knew not. When he came to himself, the 
fire was gone out, his clothes were wet with the chill and drenching dews ; 
but the dread soul-crisis was passed, and, in the joy that filled him, he 
no longer felt hunger, cold, degradation, disappointment, wretchedness. 
From his deepest soul, he that hour loosed and parted from every hope in 
the life that now is, and offered his own will an unquestioning sacrifice to 
the Infinite. Tom looked up to the silent, ever-living stars, types of the 
angelic hosts who ever look down on man ; and the solitude of the night 
rang with the triumphant words of a hymn, which he had sung often in 
happier days, but never with such feeling as now — 

The earth shall be dissolved like snow, 

The sun shall cease to shine ; 
But God, who called me here below, 

Shall be for ever mine. 

And when this mortal life shall fail, 

And flesh and sense shall cease, 
I shall possess within the veil 

A life of joy and peace. 

When we 've been there ten thousand years, 

Bright shining like the sun, 
We 've no less days to sing God's praise 

Than when we first begun. 

Those who have been familiar with the religious histories of the slave- 
population, know that relations like what we have narrated are very 
common among them. We have heard some from their own lips of a 
very touching and affecting character. The psychologist tells us of a 
state in which the affections and images of the mind become so dominant 
and overpowering that they press into their service the outward senses, 
and make them give tangible shape to the inward imagining. Who shall 
measure what an all-pervading Spirit may do with these capabilities of our 
mortality, or the ways in which he may encourage the desponding souls 
of the desolate? If the poor forgotten slave believes that Jesus hath 
appeared and spoken to him, who shall contradict him ? Did He not say 
that His mission in all ages was to bind up the broken-hearted, and set at 
liberty them that are bruised ? 

When the dim grey of dawn woke the slumberers to go forth to the 
field, there v/as one among those tattered and shivering wretches who 
walked with an exultant tread ; for firmer than the ground he trod on was 
his strong faith in almighty, eternal love. Ah, Legree ! try all your forces 
now ! Utmost agony, woe, degradation, want, and loss of all things, shall 
only hasten on the process by which he shall be made a king and a priest 
unto God ! 

From this time an inviolable sphere of peace encompassed the lowly 
heart of the oppressed one — an ever-present Saviour hallowed it as a 
temple. Past now the bleeding of earthly regrets — past its fluctuations 
of hope, and fear, and desire — the human will, bent, and bleeding, and 
struggling long, was now entirely merged in the divine. So short now 
seemed the remaining voyage of life — so near, so vivid, seemed eternal 
blessedness — that life's uttermost woes fell from him unharming. 

All noticed the change in his appearance. Cheerfulness and alertness 
seemed to return to him, and a quietness which no insult or injury could 
ruffle seemed to possess him. 

" What the devil 's got into Tom ? " Legree said to Sambo. " A while 
ago he was all down in the mouth, and now he 's peart as a cricket." 


" Dunno, mas'r ; gwine to run off, mebbe." 

"Like to see him try that," said Legree, with a savage grin; "wouldn't 
we. Sambo?" 

" Guess we would ! haw ! ho ! " said the sooty gnome, laughing 
obsequiously. " Lord, de fun ! To see him sticken' in the mud, 
chasin' and tarin' through de bushes, dogs a-holdin' on to him ! Lord, 
I laughed fit to split dat ar' time we cotched Molly. I thought they'd 
a had her all stripped up afore I could get 'em off. She car's de marks o* 
dat ar' spree yet." 

" I reckon she will to her grave," said Legree. " But now, Sambo, you 
look sharp ! If the nigger 's got anything of this sort going, trip him up." 

" Mas'r let me 'lone for dat ! " said Sambo. " I '11 tree de coon ! Ho, 
ho, ho!" 

This was spoken as Legree was getting on his horse to go to the 
neighbouring town. That night, as he was returning, he thought he 
would turn his horse and ride round the quarters, and see if all was safe. 

It was a superb moonlight night, and the shadows of the graceful 
china-trees lay minutely pencilled on the turf below, and there was 
that transparent stillness in the air which it seems almost unholy to 
disturb. Legree was at a little distance from the quarters when he 
heard the voice of some one singing. It was not a usual sound there, 
and he paused to listen. A musical tenor voice sang — 

VvTien I can read my title clear 

To mansions in the skies, 
I 'II bid farewell to every fear. 

And wipe my weeping eyes. 

Should earth against my soul engage, 

And hellish darts be hurled, 
Then I can smile at Satan's rage, 

And face a frowning world. 

Let cares like a wild deluge come, 

And storms of sorrow fall, 
May I but safely reach my home, 

My God, my heaven, my all. 

" So, ho ! " said Legree to himself, " he thinks so, does he ? How I 
hate these cursed Methodist hymns ! Here, you nigger ! " said he, coming 
suddenly out upon Tom, and raising his riding-whip, "how dare you be 
gettin' up this yer row, when you ought to be in bed ? Shut up your old 
black gash, and get along in with you ! " 

"Yes, mas'r," said Tom, with ready cheerfulness, as he rose to go in. 

Legree was provoked beyond measure by Tom's evident happiness; 
and, riding up to him, belaboured him over his head and shoulders. 

" There, you dog," he said, " see if you feel so comfortable after that ! " 

But the blows fell now only on the outer man, and not, as before, 
on the heart. Tom stood perfectly submissive; and yet Legree could 
not hide from himself that his power over his bond-thrall was some- 
how gone. And, as Tom disappeared in his cabin, and he wheeled 
his horse suddenly round, there passed through his mind one of those 
vivid flashes that often send the lightning of conscience across the dark 
and wicked soul. He understood full well that it was God who was stand- 
ing between him and his victim, and he blasphemed him. That sub- 
missive and silent man, whom taunts, nor threats, nor stripes, nor 
cruelties could disturb, roused a voice within him, such as of old 
his Master roused in the demoniac soul, saying, " What have we to do 


with thee, thou Jesus of Nazareth ? Art thou come to torment us before 
the time ? " 

Tom's whole soul overflowed with compassion and sympathy for the 
poor wretches by whom he was surrounded. To him it seemed as if 
his Hfe-sorrows were now over, and as if, out of that strange treasury 
of peace and joy with which he had been endowed from above, he 
longed to pour out something for the relief of their woes. It is true, 
opportunities were scanty; but on the way to the fields and back again, 
and during the hours of labour, chances fell in his way of extending 
a helping hand to the weary, the disheartened, and discouraged. The 
poor, worn-down, brutalised creatures at first could scarcely comprehend 
this ; but when it was continued week after week, and month after month, 
it began to awaken long silent chords in their benumbed hearts. Gradually 
and imperceptibly the strange, silent, patient man, who was ready to bear 
everyone's burden, and sought help from none — who stood aside for all, 
and came last, and took least, yet was foremost to share his little all with 
any who needed — the man who, in cold nights, would give up his tattered 
blanket to add to the comfort of some woman who shivered with sickness, 
and who filled the baskets of the weaker ones in the field, at the terrible 
risk of coming short in his own measure — and who, though pursued with 
unrelenting cruelty by their common tyrant, never joined in uttering a 
word of reviling or cursing — this man at last began to have a strange 
power over them ; and when the more pressing season was passed, 
and they were allowed again their Sundays for their own use, many 
would gather together to hear from him of Jesus. They would gladly 
have met to hear, and pray, and sing, in some place together ; but Legree 
would not permit it, and more than once broke up such attempts with 
oaths and brutal execrations, so that the blessed news had to circulate 
from individual to individual. Yet who can speak the simple joy with 
which some of those poor outcasts, to whom life was a joyless journey 
to a dark unknown, heard of a compassionate Redeemer and a heavenly 
home ? It is the statement of missionaries that, of all races of the earth, 
none have received the Gospel with such eager docility as the African. 
The principle of reliance and unquestioning faith which is its foundation 
is more a native element in this race than any other; and it has often 
been found among them that a stray seed of truth borne on some breeze 
of accident into hearts the most ignorant, has sprung up into fruit, whose 
abundance has shamed that of higher and more skilful culture. 

The poor mulatto woman, whose simple faith had been well-nigh 
crushed and overwhelmed by the avalanche of cruelty and wrong 
which had fallen upon her, felt her soul raised up by the hymns 
and passages of Floly Writ which this lowly missionary breathed into 
her ear in intervals, as they were going to and returning from work; 
and even the half-crazed and wandering mind of Cassy was soothed and 
calmed by his simple and unobtrusive influences. 

Stung to madness and despair by the crushing agonies of her life, Cassy 
had often resolved in her soul and hour of retribution, when her hand 
should avenge on her oppressor all the injustice and cruelty to which she 
had been witness, or which she had in her own person suffered. 

One night, after all in Tom's cabin were sunk in sleep, he was suddenly 
aroused by seeing her face at the hole between the logs that served for a 
window. She made a silent gesture for him to come out. 

Tom came out to the door. It was between one and two o'clock 


at night — broad, calm, still moonlight. Tom remarked, as the light of 
the moon fell upon Cassy's large black eyes, that there was a wild and 
peculiar glare in them, unlike their wonted fixed despair. 

" Come here. Father Tom," she said, laying her small hand on his wrist, 
and drawing him forward with a force as if the hand were of steel; "come 
here — I 've news for you." 

" What, Misse Cassy ? " said Tom anxiously. 

" Tom, wouldn't you like your liberty ? " 

" I shall have it, misse, in God's time," said Tom. 

" Ay, but you may have it to-night," said Cassy, with a flash of sudden 
energy. " Come on." 

Tom hesitated. 

" Come ! " said she in a whisper, fixing her black eyes on him. " Come 
along ! He 's asleep — sound. I put enough into his brandy to keep him 
so. I wish I 'd had more, I shouldn't have wanted you. But come, the 
back door is unlocked; there is an axe there, I put it there — his room 
door is open ; I '11 show you the way. I 'd 'a done it myself, only my arms 
are so weak. Come along ! " 

" Not for ten thousand worlds, misse ! " said Tom firmly, stopping and 
holding her back, as she was pressing forward. 

" But think of all these poor creatures ! " said Cassy. " We might set 
them all free, and go somewhere in the swamps and find an island and 
live by ourselves ; " I 've heard of its being done. Any life is better than 

" No ! " said Tom firmly. " No ! good never comes of wickedness. 
I 'd sooner chop my right hand off ! " 

" Then /shall do it," said Cassy, turning. 

" Oh, Misse Cassy ! " said Tom, throwing himself before her, " for the 
dear Lord's sake that died for ye, don't sell your precious soul to the devil 
that way ! Nothing but evil will come of it. The Lord hasn't called us to 
wrath. We must suffer, and wait his time." 

"Wait ! " said Cassy. " Haven't I waited? — waited till my head is dizzy 
and my heart sick ? What has he made me suffer ? What has he made 
hundreds of poor creatures suffer ? Isn't he wringing the life-blood out of 
you ? I 'm called on ! they call me ! His time 's come, and I '11 have his 
heart's blood ! " 

" No, no, no ! " said Tom, holding her small hands, which were clenched 
with spasmodic violence. " No, ye poor, lost soul, that ye mustn't do ! 
The dear, blessed Lord never shed no blood but his own, and that 
he poured out for us when we was enemies. Lord, help us to follow 
his steps, and love our enemies ! " 

" Love ! " said Cassy, with a fierce glare, " love such enemies ! It isn't 
in flesh and blood." 

" No, misse, it isn't," said Tom, looking up ; " but He gives it to us, and 
that's the victory. When we can love and pray over all and through 
all, the battle 's past and the victory 's come — glory be to God ! " And 
with streaming eyes and choking voice, the black man looked up to heaven. 

And this, O Africa ! — latest called of nations, called to the crown of 
thorns, the scourge, the bloody sweat, the cross of agony — this is to be thy 
victory ; by this shalt thou reign with Christ when his kingdom shall come 
on earth. 

The deep fervour of Tom's feelings, the softness of his voice, his tears, 
fell like dew on the wild, unsettled spirit of the poor woman. A softness 


gathered over the lurid fires of her eye ; she looked down, and Tom could 
feel the relaxing muscles of her hand as she said — 

" Didn't I tell you that evil spirits followed me ? Oh, Father Tom, 
I can't pray ! I wish I could. I never have prayed since my children 
were sold ! What you say must be right — I know it must ; but when I try 
to pray, I can only hate and curse. I can't pray ! " 

" Poor soul ! " said Tom compassionately. " Satan desires to have 
ye, and sift ye as wheat. I pray the Lord for ye. Oh, Misse Cassy, 
turn to the dear Lord Jesus. He came to bind up the broken-hearted, 
and comfort all that mourn ! " 

Cassy stood silent, while large, heavy tears dropped from her downcast 

" Misse Cassy," said Tom, in a hesitating tone, after surveying her 
a moment in silence, "if you only could get away from here — if the 
thing was possible — I'd 'vise ye and Emmeline to do it; that is, if ye 
could go without blood-guiltiness — not otherwise." 

" Would you try it with us, Father Tom ? " 

" No," said Tom. " Time was when I would ; but the Lord 's given me 
work among these yer poor souls, and I '11 stay with 'em and bear my cross 
with 'em till the end. It 's different with you ; it 's a snare to you — 
it's more'n you can stand; and you'd better go, if you can." 

" I know no way but through the grave," said Cassy. " There 's no 
beast or bird but can find a home somewhere, even the snakes and the 
alligators have their places to lie down and be quiet ; but there 's no place 
for us. Down in the darkest swamps their dogs will hunt us out, and find 
us. Everybody and everything is against us, even the very beasts side 
against us ; and where shall we go ? " 

Tom stood silent ; at length he said — 

" Him that saved Daniel in the den of lions — that saved the children in 
the fiery furnace — Him that walked on the sea and bade the winds be still 
— he's alive yet; and I've faith to believe he can deliver you. Try it, and 
I '11 pray with all my might for you." 

By what strange law of mind is it that an idea long overlooked, and 
trodden under foot as a useless stone, suddenly sparkles out in new light, 
as a discovered diamond ! 

Cassy had often revolved, for hours, all possible or probable schemes of 
escape, and dismissed them all as hopeless and impracticable ; but at this 
moment there flashed through her mind a plan, so simple and feasible in 
all its details, as to awaken an instant hope. 

" Father Tom, I '11 try it ! " she said suddenly. 

" Amen ! " said Tom. " The Lord help ye ! " 



" The way of the wicked is as darkness ; he knoweth not at what he stumbleth ." 

The garret of the house that Legree occupied, like most other garrets, 
was a great desolate space, dusty, hung with cobwebs, and littered with 
cast-off lumber. The opulent family that had inhabited the house in the 
days of its splendour had imported a great deul of splendid furniture, 


some of which they had taken away with them, while some remained standing 
desolate in mouldering, unoccupied rooms, or stored away in this place. 
One or two immense packing-boxes, in which this furniture was brought, 
stood against the sides of the garret. There was a small window there, 
which let in through its dingy, dusty panes a scanty, uncertain light on the 
tall, high -backed chairs and dusty tables, that had once seen better 

Altogether, it was a weird and ghostly place; but, ghostly as it was, 
it wanted not in legends among the superstitious negroes to increase its 
terrors. Some few years before, a negro woman who had incurred Legree's 
displeasure was confined there for several weeks. What passed there we 
do not say ; the negroes used to whisper darkly to each other ; but it was 
known that the body of the unfortunate creature was one day taken down 
from there, and buried ; and after that it was said that oaths and cursings, 
and the sound of violent blows, used to ring through that old garret, and 
mingled with wailings and groans of despair. Once, when Legree chanced 
to overhear something of this kind, he flew into a violent passion, and 
swore that the next one that told stories about that garret should have an 
opportunity of knowing what was there, for he would chain him up there 
for a week. This hint was enough to repress talking, though, of course, 
it did not disturb the credit of the story in the least. 

Gradually the staircase that led to the garret, and even the passage-way 
to the staircase, were avoided by everyone in the house, from everyone 
fearing to speak of it, and the legend was gradually falling into desuetude. 
It had suddenly occurred to Cassy to make use of the superstitious 
excitability which was so great in Legree, for the purpose of her liberation, 
and that of her fellow-sufferer. 

The sleeping-room of Cassy was directly under the garret. One day, 
without consulting Legree, she suddenly took it upon her, with some 
considerable ostentation, to change all the furniture and appurtenances 
of the room to one at some considerable distance. The under-servants, 
who were called on to effect this movement, were running and bustling 
about with great zeal and confusion, when Legree returned from a ride. 

" Hallo ! you Cass ! " said Legree ; " What 's in the wind now ? " 

" Nothing ; only I choose to have another room," said Cassy doggedly. 

" And what for, pray ? " said Legree. 

" I choose to," said Cassy. 

" The devil you do ! and what for ? " 

" I 'd like to get some sleep, now and then." 

" Sleep ! well, what hinders you sleeping ? " 

" I could tell, I suppose, if you want to hear," said Cassy drily. 

" Speak out, you minx ! " said Legree. 

" Oh ! nothing. I suppose it wouldn't disturb you ! Only groans, and 
people scuffling, and rolling round on the garret-floor half the night, from 
twelve to morning ! " 

" People up garret ! " said Legree uneasily, but forcing a laugh. " Who 
are they, Cassy ? " 

Cassy raised her sharp black eyes, and looked in the face of Legree 
with an expression that went through his bones as she said, " To be sure, 
Simon, who are they ? I 'd like to have you tell me. You don't know, I 
suppose ! " 

With an oath, Legree struck at her with his riding-whip, but she glided 
to one side, and passed through the door, and looking back, said, "If 


you '11 sleep in that room, you '11 know all about it. Perhaps you 'd better 
try it ! " and then immediately she shut and locked the door. 

Legree blustered and swore, and threatened to break down the door; 
but apparently thought better of it, and walked uneasily into the sitting- 
room. Cassy perceived that her shaft had struck home ; and from that 
hour, with the most exquisite address, she never ceased to continue the 
train of influences she had begun. 

In a knot-hole in the garret she had inserted the neck of an old bottle 
in such a manner, that, when there was the least wind, most doleful and 
lugubrious wailing sounds proceeded from it, which, in a high wind, 
increased to a perfect shriek, such as to credulous and superstitious ears 
might easily seem to be that of horror and despair. 

These sounds were from time to time heard by the servants, and 
revived in full force the memory of the old ghost legend. A superstitious, 
creeping horror seemed to fill the house; and though no one dared to 
breath it to Legree, he found himself encompassed by it as by an atmosphere. 

No one is so thoroughly superstitious as the godless man. The Christian 
is composed by the belief of a wise, all-ruling Father, whose presence fills 
the void unknown with light and order; but to the man who has 
dethroned God, the spirit-land is indeed, in the words of the Hebrew 
poet, " a land of darkness and the shadow of death," without any order, 
where the light is as darkness. Life and death to him are haunted 
grounds, filled with goblin forms of vague and shadowy dread. 

Legree had had the slumbering moral element in him roused by his 
encounters with Tom — roused, only to be resisted by the determinate 
force of evil ; but still there was a thrill and commotion of the dark, inner 
world, produced by every word, or prayer, or hymn, that reacted in 
superstitious dread. 

The influence of Cassy over him was of a strange and singular kind. 
He was her owner, her tyrant, and tormentor. She was, as he knew, 
wholly and without any possibility of help or redress in his hands ; 
and yet, so it is, that the most brutal man cannot live in constant 
association with a strong female influence, and not be greatly controlled 
by it. When he first bought her, she was, as she had said, a woman 
delicately bred; and then he crushed her, without scruple, beneath the 
foot of his brutality. But, as time, and debasing influences and despair, 
hardened womanhood within her, and waked the fires of fiercer passions, 
she had become in a measure his mistress, and he alternately tyrannised 
over and dreaded her. 

This influence had become more harassing and decided, since partial 
insanity had given a strange, weird, unsettled cast to all her words and 

A night or two after this, Legree was sitting in the old sitting-room, by the 
side of a flickering wood fire, that threw uncertain glances round the room. 
It was a stormy, windy night, such as raises whole squadrons of nondescript 
noises in rickety old houses. Windows were rattling, shutters flapping, 
the \\^nd carousing, rumbling, and tumbUng down the chimney, and every 
once in a while puffing out smoke and ashes, as if a legion of spirits were 
coming after them. Legree had been casting up accounts, and reading 
newspapers for some hours, while Cassy sat in the corner, sullenly looking 
into the fire. Legree laid down his paper, and seeing an old book lying 
on the table, which he had noticed Cassy reading the first part of the 
evening, took it up, and began to turn it over. It was one of those 


collections of stories of bloody murders, ghostly legends, and supernatural 
visitations, which, coarsely got up and illustrated, have a strange fascination 
for one who once begins to read them. 

Legree poohed and pished, but read, turning page after page, till, 
finally, after reading some way, he threw down the book with an oath. 

" You don't believe in ghosts, do you, Cass ? " said he, taking the tongs 
and settling the fire. " I thought you 'd more sense than to let noises 
%C2s& you" 

" No matter what I believe," said Cassy sullenly. 

"Fellows used to try to frighten me with their yarns at sea," said 
Legree. " Never come it round me that way. I 'm too tough for any 
such trash, tell ye." 

Cassy sat looking intensely at him in the shadow of the corner. There 
was that strange light in her eyes that always impressed Legree with 

" Them noises was nothing but rats and the wind," said Legree. " Rats 
will make a devil of a noise. I used to hear 'em sometimes down in 
the hold of the ship ; and wind — Lord's sake ! ye can make anything out 
o' wind." 

Cassy knew Legree was uneasy under her eyes, and therefore she made 
no answer, but sat fixing them on him with that strange, unearthly 
expression as before. 

" Come, speak out, woman — don't you think so ? " said Legree. 

" Can rats walk downstairs, and come walking through the entry, and open 
a door when you've locked it and set a chair against it?" said Cassy; "and 
come walk, walk, walking right up to your bed, and put out their hand so ? " 

Cassy kept her glittering eyes fixed on Legree as she spoke, and he 
stared at her like a man in the nightmare, till, when she finished by 
laying her hand, icy cold, on his, he sprang back with an oath. 

" Woman ! What do you mean ? Nobody did ! " 

" Oh, no — of course not — did I say they did ? " said Cassy, with a smile 
of chilling derision. 

" But — did — have you really seen ? Come, Cass, what is it now — speak 
out ! " 

" You may sleep there yourself," said Cassy, " if you want to know." 

" Did it come from the garret, Cassy ! " 

" // — what ? " said Cassy. 

" Why, what you told of." 

" I didn't tell you anything," said Cassy, with dogged suUenness. 

Legree walked up and down the room uneasily. 

" I '11 have this yer thing examined. I '11 look into it this very night. 
I '11 take my pistols — " 

" Do," said Cassy ; " sleep in that room. I 'd like to see you doing it. 
Fire your pistols — do ! " 

Legree stamped his foot and swore violently. 

" Don't swear," said Cassy; " nobody knows who may be hearing you. 
Hark ! What was that ? " 

" What ? " said Legree, starting. 

A heavy old Dutch clock, that stood in the corner of the room, began, 
and slowly struck twelve. 

For some reason or other Legree neither spoke nor moved ; a vague 
horror fell on him ; while Cassy, with a keen, sneering glitter in her eyes, 
stood looking at him, counting the strokes. 


"Twelve o'clock; well, now we'll see," said she, turning and opening 
the door into the passage-way, and standing as if listening. 

" Hark ! What 's that ? " said she, raising her finger. 

" It 's only the wind," said Legree. " Don't you hear how cursedly it 

"Simon, come here," said Cassy, in a whisper, laying her hand on his, 
and leading him to the foot of the stairs ; " do you know what that is ? 
Hark ! " 

A wild shriek came pealing down the stairway. It came from the 
garret. Legree's knees knocked together ; his face grew white with fear. 

" Hadn't you better get your pistols ? " said Cassy, with a sneer that 
froze Legree's blood. " It 's time this thing was looked into, you know. 
I 'd like to have you go up now ; they We at it" 

" I won't go ! " said Legree, with an oath. 

" Why not ? There an't any such thing as ghosts, you know ! Come !" 
and Cassy flitted up the winding stairway, laughing, and looking back 
after him. " Come on." 

" I believe you are the devil ! " said Legree. " Come back, you hag ! — 
come back, Cass ! You shan't go ! " 

But Cassy laughed wildly, and fled on. He heard her open the entry 
doors that led to the garret. A wild gust of wind swept down, extinguish- 
ing the candle he held in his hand, and with it the fearful, unearthly 
screams ; they seemed to be shrieked in his very ear. 

Legree fled frantically into the parlour, whither, in a few moments, he 
was followed by Cassy, pale, calm, cold as an avenging spirit, and with that 
same fearful light in her eye. 

" I hope you are satisfied," said she. 

" Blast you, Cass ! " said Legree. 

"What for?" said Cassy. "I only went up and shut the doors. 
What's the matter with that garret, Simon, do you suppose?" said she. 

" None of your business ! " said Legree. 

" Oh, it an't ? Well," said Cassy, " at any rate, I 'm glad I don't sleep 
under it." 

Anticipating the rising of the wind that very evening, Cassy had been up 
and opened the garret-window. Of course the moment the doors were 
opened the wind had drafted down, and extinguished the light. 

This may serve as a specimen of the game that Cassy played with 
Legree, until he would sooner have put his head into a lion's mouth than 
to have explored that garret. Meanwhile, in the night, when everybody 
else was asleep, Cassy slowly and carefully accumulated there a stock of 
provisions sufficient to aff'ord subsistence for some time ; she transferred, 
article by article, a greater part of her own and Emmeline's wardrobe. All 
things being arranged, they only wanted a fitting opportunity to put their 
plan in execution. 

By cajoHng Legree, and taking advantage of a good-natured interval, 
Cassy had got him to take her with him to the neighbouring town, which 
was situated directly on the Red River. With a memory sharpened to 
almost preternatural clearness, she remarked every turn in the road, and 
formed a mental estimate of the time to be occupied in traversing it. 

At the time when all was matured for action, our readers may, perhaps, 
like to look behind the scenes, and see the final coup d'etat. 

It was now near evening. Legree had been absent on a ride to a neigh- 
bouring farm. For many days Cassy had been unusually gracious and 


accommodating in her huQiours; and Legree and she had been, apparently, 
on the best of terms. At present, we may behold her and Emmeline in 
the room of the latter, busy in assorting and arranging two small bundles. 

"There, these will be large enough," said Cassy. "Now put on your 
bonnet, and let 's start ; it 's just about the right time." 

" Why, they can see us yet," said Emmeline. 

" I mean they shall," said Cassy, coolly. " Don't you know that they 
must have their chase after us, at any rate ? The way of the thing is to be 
just this. We will steal out of the back door, and run down by the 
quarters. Sambo or Quimbo will be sure to see us. They will give 
chase, and we will get into the swamp ; then, they can't follow us any 
further till they go up and give the alarm, and turn out the dogs, and so 
on ; and while they are blundering round, and tumbling over each other, 
as they always do, you and I will just slip along to the creek that runs 
back of the house, and wade along in it till we get opposite the back door. 
That will put the dogs all at fault ; for scent won't lie in the water. Every- 
one will run out of the house to look after us, and then we '11 whip in at 
the back door, and up into the garret, where I 've got a nice bed made up 
in one of the great boxes. We must stay in that garret a good while ; for, 
I tell you, he will raise heaven and earth after us. He '11 muster some of 
those old overseers on the other plantations, and have a great hunt ; and 
they'll go over every inch of ground in that swamp. He makes it his 
boast that nobody ever got away from him. So let him hunt at his leisure." 

" Cassy, how well you have planned it ! " said Emmeline. " Whoever 
would have thought of it but you ? " 

There was neither pleasure nor exultation in Cassy's eyes — only a 
despairing firmness. 

" Come," she said, reaching her hand to Emmeline. 

The two fugitives glided noiselessly from the house, and flitted, through 
the gathering shadows of evening, along by the quarters. The crescent 
moon, set like a silver signet in the western sky, delayed a little the 
approach of night. As Cassy expected, when quite near the verge of the 
swamps that encircled the plantation, they heard a voice calling to them to 
stop. It was not Sambo, however, but Legree, who was pursuing them 
with violent execrations. At the sound, the feebler spirit of Emmeline 
gave way ; and, laying hold of Cassy's arm, she said, " O Cassy, I 'm going 
to faint ! " 

" If you do, I '11 kill you ! " said Cassy, drawing a small, glittering 
stiletto, and flashing it before the eyes of the girl. 

The diversion accomplished the purpose. Emmeline did not faint, and 
succeeded in plunging with Cassy into a part of the labyrinth of swamp, so .: 
deep and dark that it was hopeless for Legree to think of following them 'i, 
without assistance. -^| 

" Well," said he, chuckling brutally, " at any rate, they 've got themselves ,i| 
into a trap now — the baggages ! They 're safe enough. They shall sweat '^ '' 
for it ! " 

" HuUoa, there ! Sambo ! Quimbo ! All hands ! " called Legree, 
coming to the quarters when the men and women were just returning 
from work. " There 's two runaways in the swamp. I '11 give five dollars 
to any nigger as catches 'em. Turn out the dogs ! Turn out Tiger, and 
Fury, and the rest ! " 

The sensation produced by this news was immediate. Many of the 
men sprang forward officiously to offer their services, either from the hope 


of the reward, or from that cringing subserviency which is one of the most 
baneful effects of slavery. Some ran one way, and some another. Some 
were for getting flambeaux of pine-knots. Some were uncoupling the dogs, 
whose hoarse, savage bay added not a little to the animation of the scene. 

" Mas'r, shall we shoot 'em if we can't cotch 'em ? " said Sambo, to 
whom his master brought out a rifle. 

" You may fire on Cass, if you like ; it 's time she was gone to the devil, 
where she belongs ; but the gal, not," said Legree. " And now, boys, be 
spry and smart. Five dollars for him that get's 'em ; and a glass of spirits 
to every one of you, anyhow." 

The whole band, with the glare of blazing torches, and whoop, and 
shout, and savage yell of man and beast, proceeded down to the swamp, 
followed at some distance by every servant in the house. The establish- 
ment was, of a consequence, wholly deserted when Cassy and Emmeline 
glided into it the back way. The whooping and shouts of their pursuers 
were still filling the air; and, looking from the sitting-room windows, 
Cassy and Emmeline could see the troop, with their flambeaux, just 
dispersing themselves along the edge of the swamp. 

" See there ! " said Emmeline, pointing to Cassy ; " the hunt is begun ! 
Look how those lights dance about ! Hark ! the dogs ! Don't you hear ? 
If we were only there, our chance wouldn't be worth a picayune. Oh, for 
pity's sake, do let's hide ourselves. Quick ! " 

"There's no occasion for hurry," said Cassy coolly; "they are all out 
after the hunt — that's the amusement of the evening ! We'll go upstairs 
by-and-bye. Meanwhile," said she, deliberately taking a key from the 
pocket of a coat that Legree had thrown down in his hurry, " meanwhile 
I shall take something to pay our passage." 

She unlocked the desk, took from it a roll of bills, which she counted 
over rapidly. 

" Oh, don't let 's do that ! " said Emmeline. 

"Don't!" said Cassy; "why not? Would you have us starve in the 
swamps, or have that that will pay our way to the free states ? Money will 
do anything, girl." And, as she spoke, she put the money in her bosom. 

" It would be stealing," said Emmeline, in a distressed whisper. 

"Stealing ! " said Cassy, with a scornful laugh. "They who steal body 
and soul needn't talk to us. Every one of these bills is stolen— stolen 
from poor, starving, sweating creatures, who must go to the devil at last 
for his profit. Let him talk about stealing ! But come, we may as well 
go up garret ; I 've got a stock of candles there, and some books to pass 
away the time. You may be pretty sure they won't come tJiere to inquire 
after us. If they do, I '11 play ghost for them." 

When Emmeline reached the garret, she found an immense box, in 
which some heavy pieces of furniture had once been brought, turned on 
its side, so that the opening faced the wall, or rather the eaves. Cassy lit 
a small lamp, and, creeping round under the eaves, they established them- 
selves in it. It was spread with a couple of small mattresses and some 
pillows ; a box near by was plentifully stored with candles, provisions, and 
all the clothing necessary for their journey, which Cassy had arranged 
into bundles of an astonishingly small compass. 

" There," said Cassy, as she fixed the lamp on a small hook, which she 
had driven into the side of the box for that purpose ; " this is to be our 
home for the present. How do you like it ? " 

" Are you sure they won't come and search the garret ? " 


" I 'd like to see Simon Legree doing that," said Cassy. " No, indeed ; 
he will be too glad to keep away. As to the servants, they would any of 
them stand and be shot sooner than show their faces here." 

Somewhat re-assured, Emmeline settled herself back on her pillow. 

"What did you mean, Cassy, by saying you would kill me?" she said. 

" I meant to stop your fainting," said Cassy, " and I did do it. And 
now I tell you, Emmeline, you must make up your mind nof to faint, let 
what will come ; there 's no sort of need of it. If I had not stopped you, 
that wretch might have had his hands on you now." Emmeline shuddered. 

The two remained some time in silence. Cassy busied herself with a 
French book ; Emmeline, overcome with the exhaustion, fell into a doze, 
an4 slept some time. She was awakened by loud shouts and outcries, the 
tramp of horses' feet, and the baying of dogs. She started up with a 
faint shriek. 

*' Only the hunt coming back," said Cassy coolly ; " never fear. Look 
out of this knot-hole. Don't you see 'em all down there ? Simon has to 
give it up for this night. Look how muddy his horse is, flouncing about 
in the swamp ; the dogs, too, look rather crest-fallen. Ah, my good sir, 
you '11 have to try the race again and again — the game isn't there." 

" Oh, don't speak a word ! " said Emmeline ; " what if they should 
hear you ? " 

" If they do hear anything, it will make them very particular to keep 
away," said Cassy. " No danger ; we may make any noise we please, and 
it will only add to the effect." 

At length the stillness of midnight settled down over the house. 
Legree, cursing his ill-luck, and vowing dire vengeance on the morrow, 
went to bed. 



*' Deem not the just by heaven forgot ! 

Though life its common gifts deny — 
Though, with a crushed and bleeding heart, 

And spurned of man, he goes to die ! 
For God hath marked each sorrowing day, 

And numbered every bitter tear ; 
And heaven's long years of bliss shall pay 

For all his children suffer here." — Bryant. 

The longest way must have its close — the gloomiest night will wear on to 
a morning. An eternal, inexorable lapse of moments is ever hurrying the 
day of the evil to an eternal night, and the night of the just to an eternal 
day. We have walked with our humble friend thus far in the valley of 
slavery ; first through flowery fields of ease and indulgence, then through 
heart-breaking separations from all that man holds dear. Again, we have 
waited with him in a sunny island, where generous hands concealed his 
chains with flowers ; and, lastly, we have followed him when the last ray 
of earthly hope went out in night, and seen how, in the blackness of 
earthly darkness, the firmament of the unseen has blazed with stars of new 
and significant lustre. 

The morning-star now stands on the tops of the mountains ; and gales 
and breezes, not of earth, show that the gates of day are unclosing. 


The escape of Cassy and Emmeline irritated the before-surly temper of 
Legree to the last degree ; and his fury, as was to be expected, fell upon 
the defenceless head of Tom. When he hurriedly announced the tidings 
among his hands, there was a sudden light in Tom's eye, a sudden 
upraising of his hands, that did not escape him. He saw that he did 
not join the muster of the pursuers. He thought of forcing him to do 
it j but, having had, of old, experience of his inflexibility when com- 
manded to take part in any deed of inhumanity, he would not, in his 
hurry, stop to enter into any conflict with him. 

Tom, therefore, remained behind, with a few who had learned of him to 
pray, and offered up prayers for the escape of the fugitives. 

When Legree returned, bafiled and disappointed, all the long-working 
hatred of his soul towards his slave began to gather in a deadly and 
desperate form. Had not this man braved him — steadily, powerfully, 
resistlessly — ever since he bought him? Was there not a spirit in him 
which, silent as it was, burned on him like the fires of perdition? 

" I hate him ! " said Legree, that night, as he sat up in his bed ; "I 
hate him ! And isn't he mine ? Can't I do what I like with him ? Who 's 
to hinder, I wonder?" And Legree clenched his fist and shook it as if 
he had something in his hands that he could rend in pieces. 

But then Tom was a faithful, valuable servant ; and although Legree 
hated him the more for that, yet the consideration was still somewhat of a 
restraint to him. 

The next morning he determined to say nothing, as yet; to assemble 
a party from some neighbouring plantations, with dogs and guns ; to 
surround the swamp, and go about the hunt systematically. If i; suc- 
ceeded, well and good ; if not, he would summon Tom before him, and — • 
his teeth clenched and his blood boiled — then he would break that fellow 
down, or — there was a dire inward whisper, to which his soul assented. 

Ye say that the i?iterest of the master is a sufficient safeguard for the 
slave. In the fury of man's mad will, he will wittingly, and with open 
eye, sell his own soul to the devil to gain his ends ; and will he be more 
careful of his neighbour's body ? 

"Well," said Cassy, the next day, from the garret, as she reconnoitred 
through the knot-hole, " the hunt 's going to begin again to-day ! " 

Three or four mounted horsemen were curvetting about, on the space in 
front of the house ; and one or two leashes of strange dogs were struggling 
with the negroes who held them, baying and barking at each other. 

The men are, two of them, overseers of plantations in the vicinity ; and 
others were some of Legree's associates at the tavern-bar of a neighbouring 
city, who had come for the interest of the sport. A more hard-favoured 
set, perhaps, could not be imagined. Legree was serving brandy profusely 
round among them, as also among the negroes who had been detailed 
from the various plantations for this service ; fer it was an object to make 
every service of this kind among the negroes as much of a holiday as 

Cassy placed her ear at the knot-hole ; and, as the morning air blew 
directly towards the house, she could overhear a good deal of the conver- 
sation. A grave sneer overcast the dark, severe gravity of her face, as she 
listened, and heard them divide out the ground, discuss the rival merits of 
the dogs, give orders about firing, and the treatment of each, in case of 

Cassy drew back ; and, clasping her hands, looking upward, said, " O 


great Almighty God ! we are all sinners ; but what have we done, more 
than all the rest of the world, that we should be treated so ? " 

There was a terrible earnestness in her face and voice as she spoke. 

" If it wasn't for you, child," she said, looking at Emmeline, " I 'd go 
out to them ; and I 'd thank any one of them that would shoot me down ; 
for what use will freedom be to me ? Can it give me back my children, 
or make me what I used to be ? " 

Emmeline, in her childlike simplicity, was half afraid of the dark moods 
of Cassy. She looked perplexed, but made no answer. She only took 
her hand, with a gentle, caressing movement. 

" Don't ! " said Cassy, trying to draw it away ; " you '11 get me to loving 
you ; and I never mean to love anything again ! " 

" Poor Cassy ! " said Emmeline, " don't feel so ! If the Lord gives us 
liberty, perhaps he '11 give you back your daughter ; at any rate, I '11 be like 
a daughter to you. I know I '11 never see my poor old mother again ! I 
shall love you, Cassy, whether you love me or not ! " 

The gentle, child-like spirit conquered. Cassy sat down by her, put her 
arm round her neck, stroked her soft brown hair; and Emmeline then 
wondered at the beauty of her magnificent eyes, now soft with tears. 

" O Em ! " said Cassy, " I 've hungered for my children, and thirsted 
for them, and my eyes fail with longing for them ! Here ! here ! " she 
said, striking her breast, " it 's all desolate, all empty ! If God would give 
me back my children, then I could pray." 

" You must trust him, Cassy," said Emmeline ; " he is our Father ! " 

*' His wrath is upon us," said Cassy ; " he has turned away in anger." 

" No, Cassy ! He will be good to us ! Let us hope in him," said 
Emmeline. " I always have had hope." 

« •;? ft« * * # # 

The hunt was long, animated, and thorough, but unsuccessful; and, 
with grave, ironic exultation, Cassy looked down on Legree, as, weary and 
dispirited, he alighted from his horse. 

"Now, Quimbo," said Legree, as he stretched himself down in the 
sitting-room, " you just go and walk that Tom up here, right away ! The 
old cuss is at the bottom of this yer whole matter ; and I '11 have it out of 
his old black hide, or I '11 know the reason why ! " 

Sambo and Quimbo both, though hating each other, were joined in one 
mind by a no less cordial hatred of Tom. Legree had told them at first 
that he had bought him for a general overseer in his absence ; and this 
had begun an ill-will on their part, which had increased, in their debased 
and servile natures, as they saw him becoming obnoxious to their master's 
displeasure. Quimbo, therefore, departed with a will to execute his orders. 

Tom heard the message with a forewarning heart ; for he knew all the 
plan of the fugitives' escape, and the place of their present concealment. 
He knew the deadly character of the man he had to deal with, and his 
despotic power. But he felt strong in God to meet death, rather than 
betray the helpless. He set his basket down by the row, and, looking up, 
said, " Into Thy hands I commend my spirit ! Thou hast redeemed me, 
O Lord God of truth ! " and then quietly yielded himself to the rough, 
brutal grasp with which Quimbo seized him. 

"Ay, ay!" said the giant, as he dragged him along, "ye '11 cotch it,' 
now ; I '11 boun' mas'r's back 's up high ! No sneaking out, now ! Tell ye, 
ye '11 get it, and no mistake ! See how you '11 look now, helpin' mas'r's 
niggers to run away ! See what ye '11 get ! " 


The savage words none of them reached that ear — a higher voice there 
was saying, "Fear not them that kill the body, and after that have no 
more that they can do." Nerve and bone of that poor man's body 
vibrated to those words, as if touched by the finger of God ; and he felt 
the strength of a thousand souls in one. As he passed along, the trees 
and bushes, the huts of his servitude, the whole scene of his degradation 
seemed to whirl by him, as the landscape by the rushing car. His 
soul throbbed — his home was in sight — and the hour of release seemed at 

"Well, Tom," said Legree, walking up and seizing him grimly by the 
collar of his coat, and speaking through his teeth, in a paroxysm of deter- 
mined rage, " do you know I 've made up my mind to kill you ? " 

"It's very likely, mas'r," said Tom calmly. 

^^ I have" said Legree, with grim, terrible calmness, ^^ done— just — that 
— thing, Tom, unless you tell me what you know about these yer gals ! " 

Tom stood silent. 

"D'ye hear?" said Legree, stamping, with a roar like that of an 
incensed lion. " Speak !" 

"Z hanH got nothing to tell, mas'r" said Tom, with a slow, firm, 
deliberate utterance. 

" Do you dare to tell me, ye old black Christian, ye don't know ? " said 

Tom was silent. 

" Speak ! " thundered Legree, striking him furiously. " Do you know 
anything ? " 

" I know, mas'r ; but I can't tell anything. / can die / " 

Legree drew in a long breath ; and, suppressing his rage, took Tom by 
the arm, and, approaching his face almost to his, said, in a terrible voice, 
" Hark'e, Tom — ye think 'cause I 've let you off before, I don't mean what 
I say; but this time I've made up my mind, and counted the cost. 
You 've always stood it out agin' me — now I '11 conquer you or kill you / 
one or t' other. I '11 count every drop of blood there is in you, and take 
'em one by one, till ye give up ! " 

Tom looked up to his master, and answered, " Mas'r, if you was sick, or 
in trouble, or dying, and I could save ye, I 'd give ye my heart's blood ; 
and if taking every drop of blood in this poor old body would save your 
precious soul, I 'd give 'em freely, as the Lord gave his for me. Oh, 
mas'r, don't bring this great sin on your soul ! It will hurt you more than 
*t will me ! Do the worst you can, my troubles '11 be over soon ; but if ye 
don't repent, yours won't never end ! " 

Like a strange snatch of heavenly music, heard in the lull of a tempest, 
this burst of feeling made a moment's blank pause. Legree stood aghast, 
and looked at Tom ; and there was such a silence that the tick of the old 
clock could be heard, measuring, with silent touch, the last moments 
of mercy and probation to that hardened heart. 

It was but a moment. There was one hesitating pause, one irresolute, 
relenting thrill, and the spirit of evil came back with sevenfold vehemence ; 
and Legree, foaming with rage, smote his victim to the ground. 

Scenes of blood and cruelty are shocking to our ear and heart. What 
man has nerve to do, man has not nerve to hear ! What brother-man and 
brother-Christian must suffer cannot be told us, even in our secret 
chamber, it so harrows up the soul. And yet, O my country ! these things 


are done under the shadow of thy laws ! O Christ ! thy Church sees them, 
almost in silence ! 

But of old there was One whose suffering changed an instrument 
of torture, degradation, and shame, into a symbol of glory, honour, and 
immortal life ; and where his Spirit is, neither degraded stripes, nor blood, 
nor insults, can make the Christian's last struggle less than glorious. 

Was he alone that long night, whose brave, loving spirit was bearing up, 
in that old shed, against buffeting and brutal stripes ? 

Nay ! There stood by him One, seen by him alone, " like unto the Son 
of God." 

The tempter stood by him, too, blinded by furious, despotic will, every 
moment pressing him to shun that agony by the betrayal of the innocent. 
But the brave, true heart was firm on the Eternal Rock. Like his Master, 
he knew that, if he saved others, himself he could not save ; nor could 
utmost extremity wring from him words, save of prayer and holy trust. 

" He 's 'most gone, mas'r," said Sambo, touched, in spite of himself, by 
the patience of his victim. 

" Pay away till he gives up ! Give it to him, give it to him ! " shouted 
Legree. " I '11 take every drop of blood he has, unless he confesses ! " 

Tom opened his eyes, and looked upon his master. " Ye poor 
miserable crittur ! " he said, " there an't no more ye can do ! I forgive ye 
with all my soul ! " and he fainted entirely away. 

" I b'lieve, my soul, he's done for finally," said Legree, stepping forward 
to look at him. "Yes, he is ! Well, his mouth's shut up at last — that's 
one comfort ! " 

Yes, Legree ; but who shall shut up that voice in thy soul — that soul, 
past repentance, past prayer, past hope, in whom the fire that never shall 
be quenched is already burning ! 

Yet Tom was not quite gone. His wondrous words and pious prayers 
had struck upon the hearts of the embruted blacks who had been the 
instruments of cruelty upon him ; and the instant Legree withdrew, they 
took him down, and, in their ignorance, sought to call him back to life — ■ 
as if that were any favour to him. 

" Sartin, we 's been doin' a drefful wicked thing ! " said Sambo ; " hopes 
mas'r '11 have to 'count for it, and not we." 

They washed his wounds — they provided a rude bed of some refuse 
cotton for him to lie down on ; and one of them, stealing up to the house, 
begged a drink of brandy of Legree, pretending that he was tired, and 
wanted it for himself. He brought it back, and poured it down Tom's 

" O Tom ! " said Quimbo, " we 's been awful wicked to ye ! " 

" I forgive ye, with all my heart ! " said Tom faintly. 

" O Tom ! do tell us who is Jesus, anyhow ? " said Sambo — " Jesus, 
that 's been a standin' by you so, all this night ! Who is he ? " 

The word roused the failing, fainting spirit. He poured forth a few 
energetic sentences of that wondrous One — his life, his death, his everlast- 
ing presence and power to save. 

They wept — both the savage men. 

"Why didn't I never hear this before?" said Sambo; "but I do 
believe — I can't help it ! Lord Jesus, have mercy on us ! " 

" Poor critturs ! " said Tom, " I 'd be willing to b'ar all I have, if it '11 
only bring ye to Christ ! O Lord ! give me these two more souls, I pray !" 

That prayer was answered ! 





Two days after, a young man drove a light waggon up through the avenue 
of China-trees, and, throwing the reins hastily on the horses' necks, 
sprang out and inquired for the owner of the place. 

It was George Shelby ; and, to show how he came to be there, we must 
go back in our story. 

The letter of Miss Ophelia to Mrs. Shelby had, by some unfortunate 
accident, been detained for a month or two at some remote post-office, 
before it reached its destination ; and, of course, before it was received, 
Tom was already lost to view among the distant swamps of the Red 

Mrs. Shelby read the intelligence with the deepest concern ; but any 
immediate action upon it was an impossibility. She was then in attend- 
ance on the sick-bed of her husband, who lay delirious in the crisis of a 
fever. Master George Shelby, who, in the interval, had changed from a 
boy to a tall young man, was her constant and faithful assistant, and her 
only reliance in superintending his father's affairs. Miss Ophelia had 
taken the precaution to send the name of the lawyer who did business for 
the St. Clares ; and the most that in the emergency could be done was, to 
address a letter of inquiry to him. The sudden death of Mr. Shelby a 
few days after, brought, of course, an absorbing pressure of other interests 
for a season. 

Mr. Shelby showed his confidence in his wife's ability by appointing her 
sole executrix upon his estates ; and thus immediately a large and com- 
plicated amount of business was brought upon her hands. 

Mrs. Shelby, with characteristic energy, applied herself to the work of 
straightening the entangled web of affairs, and she and George were for 
some time occupied with collecting and examining accounts, selling 
property and settling debts ; for Mrs. Shelby was determined that every- 
thing should be brought into tangible and recognisable shape, let the 
consequences to her prove what they might. In the meantime, they 
received a letter from the lawyer to whom Miss Ophelia had referred 
them, saying that he knew nothing of the matter; that the man was 
sold at a public auction, and that, beyond receiving the money, he knew 
nothing of the affair. 

Neither George nor Mrs. Shelby could be easy at this result ; and, 
accordingly, some six months after, the latter, having business for his 
mother down the river, resolved to visit New Orleans in person, and push 
his inquiries, in hopes of discovering Tom's whereabouts and restoring 

After some months of unsuccessful search, by the merest accident 
George fell in with a man in New Orleans who happened to be possessed 
of the desired information ; and, with his money in his pocket, our hero 
took steamboat for Red River, resolving to find out and re-purchase his 
old friend. 

He was soon introduced into the house, where he found Legree in the 

Legree received the stranger with a kind of surly hospitality. 


"I understand," said the young man, "that you bought, in New 
Orleans, a boy named Tom. He used to be on my father's place, and 
I came to see if I couldn't buy him back." 

Legree's brow grew dark, and he broke out passionately, "Yes, I did 
buy such a fellow ; and a h — 1 of a bargain I had of it, too \ The most 
rebellious, saucy, impudent dog ! Set up my niggers to run away, got off 
two gals worth eight hundred or a thousand dollars apiece. He owned to 
that, and, when I bid him tell me where they was, he up and said he 
knew, but he wouldn't tell; and stood to it, though I gave him the 
cussedest flogging I ever gave nigger yet. I b'lieve he's trying to die; 
but I don't know as he'll make it out." 

"Where is he?" said George impetuously. "Let me see him." The 
cheeks of the young man were crimson, and his eyes flashed fire ; but he 
prudently said nothing as yet. 

" He 's in dat ar shed," said a little fellow, who stood holding George's 

Legree kicked the boy and swore at him ; but George, without saying 
another word, turned and strode to the spot. 

Tom had been lying two days since the fatal night ; not suffering, for 
every nerve of suffering was blunted and destroyed. He lay, for the most 
part, in a quiet stupor; for the laws of a powerful and well-knit frame 
would not at once release the imprisoned spirit. By stealth, there had 
been there, in the darkness of the night, poor, desolated creatures, who 
stole from their scanty hours' rest, that they might repay to him some of 
those ministrations of love in which he had always been so abundant. 
Truly, those poor disciples had little to give — only the cup of cold water ; 
but it was given with full hearts. 

Tears had fallen on that honest, insensible face — tears of late repent- 
ance in the poor, ignorant heathen, whom his dying love and patience had 
awakened to repentance, and bitter prayers breathed over him to a late 
found Saviour, of whom they scarce knew more than the name, but whom 
the yearning, ignorant heart of man never implores in vain. 

Gassy, who had glided out of her place of concealment, and, by over- 
hearing", learned the sacrifice that had been made for her and EmmeUne, 
had been there the night before, defying the danger of detection; and, 
moved by the few last words which the affectionate soul had yet strength 
to breathe, the long winter of despair, the ice of years had given way, and 
the dark, despairing woman had wept and prayed. 

When George entered the shed, he felt his head giddy and his heart sick. 

"Is it possible? — is it possible?" said he, kneeling down by him. 
"Uncle Tom, my poor, poor old friend !" 

Something in the voice penetrated to the ear of the dying. He moved 
his head gently, smiled, and said — ■ 

Jesus can make a dying bed 
Feel soft as downy pillows are. 

Tears which did honour to his manly heart fell from the young man's 
eyes as he bent over his poor friend. 

" Oh, dear Uncle Tom ! do wake — do speak once more ! Look up ! \ 
Here's Mas'r George — your own little Mas'r George. Don't you know, 

" Mas'r George ! " said Tom, opening his eyes, and speaking in a feebly 
voice, " Mas'r George ! " He looked bewildered. 


Slowly the idea seemed to fill his soul; and the vacant eye became fixed 
and brightened, the whole face lighted up, the hard hands clasped, and 
tears ran down the cheeks. 

" Bless the Lord ! it is — it is — it 's all I wanted ! They haven't forgot 
me. It warms my soul ; it does my old heart good ! Now I shall die 
content ! Bless the Lord, O my soul ! " 

" You shan't die ! you mustrCt die, nor think of it ! I 've come to buy 
you, and take you home," said George, with impetuous vehemence. 

"Oh, Mas'r George, ye 're too late. The Lord's bought me, and is 
going to take me home — and I long to go. Heaven is better than 

" Oh, don't die ! It '11 kill me ! — it '11 break my heart to think what 
you've suffered — and lying in this old shed, here! Poor, poor fellow!" 

" Don't call me poor fellow !" said Tom solemnly. " I have been poor 
fellow, but that 's all past and gone now. I 'm right in the door, going 
into glory ! Oh, Mas'r George ! Heaven has come ! I 've got the victory ! 
the Lord Jesus has given it to me ! Glory be to his name ! " 

George was awe-struck at the force, the vehemence, the power with 
which these broken sentences were uttered. He sat gazing in silence. 

Tom grasped his hand, and continued — "Ye mustn't, now, tell Chloe, 
poor soul ! how ye found me; 't would be so drefful to her. Only tell her 
ye found me going into glory ; and that I couldn't stay for no one. And 
tell her the Lord stood by me everywhere, and al'ays, and made every- 
thing light and easy. And oh, the poor chil'en, and the baby — my old 
heart 's been most broke for 'em, time and again. Tell 'em all to follow 
me — follow me ! Give my love to mas'r, and dear good missis, and 
everybody in the place ! Ye don't know ! 'Pears like I loves 'em all. 
I loves every creatur', everywhar ! — it 's nothing but love ! Oh, Mas'r 
George! what a thing it is to be a Christian !" 

At this moment Legree sauntered up to the door of the shed, looked in 
with a dogged air of affected carelessness, and turned away. 

"The old Satan !" said George, in his indignation. " It 's a comfort to 
think the devil will pay him for this some of these days ! " 

"Oh, don't! — oh, ye mustn't!" said Tom, grasping his hand; "he's a 
poor mis'able crittur. It 's awful to think on 't ! Oh, if he only could 
repent, the Lord would forgive him now ; but I 'm 'feared he never will." 

" I hope he won't !" said George. " I never want to see him in 

" Hush, Mas'r George ! it worries me. Don't feel so. He an't done 
me no real harm — only opened the gate of the kingdom for me; that's 
all !" 

At this moment the sudden flush of strength which the joy of meeting 
his young master had infused into the dying man gave way. A sudden 
sinking fell upon him ; he closed his eyes, and that mysterious and 
sublime change passed over his face that told the approach of other 

He began to draw his breath with long, deep inspirations; and his 
broad chest rose and fell heavily. The expression of his face was that 
of a conqueror. 

" Who — who — who shall separate us from the love of Christ?" he said, 
in a voice that contended with mortal weakness ; and with a smile he fell 

George sat fixed with solemn awe. It seemed to him that the place was 


holy ; and as he closed the lifeless eyes, and rose up from the dead, only 
one thought possessed him — that expressed by his simple old friend, 
" What a thing it is to be a Christian ! " 

He turned. Legree was standing sullenly behind him. 

Something in that dying scene had checked the natural fierceness of 
youthful passion. The presence of the man was simply loathsome to 
George ; and he felt only an impulse to get away from him with as few 
words as possible. 

Fixing his keen dark eyes on Legree, he simply said, pointing to the 
dead, " You have got all you ever can of him. What shall I pay you for 
the body ? I will take it away, and bury it decently." 

" I don't sell dead niggers," said Legree, doggedly. " You are welcome 
to bury him where and when you like." 

" Boys," said George, in an authoritative tone to two or three negroes 
who were looking at the body, " help me lift him up, and carry him to my 
waggon ; and get me a spade." 

One of them ran for a spade ; the other two assisted George to carry the 
body to the waggon. 

George neither spoke to nor looked at Legree, who did not counter- 
mand his orders, but stood whistling with an air of forced unconcern. He 
sulkily followed them to where the waggon stood at the door. 

George spread his cloak in the waggon, and had the body carefully 
disposed of in it, moving the seat so as to give it room. Then he turned, 
fixed his eyes on Legree, and said, with forced composure — 

" I have not as yet said to you what I think of this most atrocious affair; 
this is not the time and place. But, sir, this innocent blood shall have 
justice. I will proclaim this murder. I will go to the very first magistrate, 
and expose you." 

" Do ! " said Legree, snapping his fingers scornfully. " I 'd like to see 
you doing it. Where you going to get witnesses? — how you going to 
prove it ? Come, now ! " 

George saw at once the force of this defiance. There was not a white 
person on the place ; and, in all southern courts, the testimony of coloured 
blood is nothing. He felt at that moment as if he could have rent the 
heavens with his heart's indignant cry for justice ; but in vain. 

" After all, what a fuss for a dead nigger ! " said Legree. 

The word was as a spark to a powder-magazine. Prudence was never a 
cardinal virtue of the Kentucky boy. George turned, and, with one 
indignant blow, knocked Legree flat upon his face ; and, as he stood over 
him, blazing with wrath and defiance, he would have formed no bad 
personification of his great namesake triumphing over the dragon. 

Some men, however, are decidedly bettered by being knocked down. If 
a man lays them fairly flat in the dust, they seem immediately to conceive 
a respect for him ; and Legree was one of this sort. As he rose, therefore, 
and brushed the dust from his clothes, he eyed the slowly-retreating 
waggon with some evident consideration ; nor did he open his mouth till 
it was out of sight. 

Beyond the boundaries of the plantation George had noticed a dry, 
sandy knoll, shaded by a few trees ; there they made the grave. 

" Shall we take off" the cloak, mas'r ? " said the negroes, when the grave 
was ready. 

" No, no ; bury it with him. It 's p.11 I can give you now, poor Tom, 
and you shall have it." 


They laid him in ; and the men shovelled away silently. They banked 
it up, and laid green turf over it. 

" You may go, boys," said George, slipping a quarter into the hand of 
each. They lingered about, however. 

" If young mas'r would please buy us " said one. 

" We 'd serve him so faithful ! " said the other. 

" Hard times here, mas'r !" said the first. " Do, mas'r, buy us, please ! " 

"I can't! — I can't!" said George, with difficulty, motioning them off; 
" it 's impossible ! " , 

The poor fellows looked dejected, and walked off in silence. 

" Witness, eternal God," said George, kneehng on the grave of his poor 
friend, "oh, witness that, from this hour, I will do what one tnan can to 
drive out this curse of slavery from my land ! " 

There is no monument to mark the last resting-place of our friend. He 
needs none. His Lord knows where he lies, and will raise him up 
immortal, to appear with Him when He shall appear in his glory ! 

Pity him not ! Such a life and death is not for pity. Not in the riches 
of omnipotence is the chief glory of God, but in self-denying, suffering 
love. And blessed are the men whom he calls to fellowship with him, 
bearing their cross after him v/ith patience. Of such it is written, 
"Blessed are they that mourn, for they shall be comforted." 



For some remarkable reason, ghostly legends were uncommonly rife about 
this time among the servants on Legree's place. 

It was whisperingly asserted that footsteps, in the dead of night, had 
been heard descending the garret-stairs, and patrolling the house. In 
vain the doors of the upper entry had been locked; the ghost either 
carried a duphcate key in its pocket, or availed itself of a ghost's 
immemorial privilege of coming through the keyhole, and promenaded as 
before, with a freedom that was alarming. 

Authorities were somewhat divided as to the outward form of the spirit, 
owing to a custom quite prevalent among negroes — and, for aught we 
know, among whites too — of invariably shutting the eyes, and covering up 
heads under blankets, petticoats, or whatever else might come in use for a 
shelter on these occasions. Of course, as everybody knows, when the 
bodily eyes are thus out of the lists, the spiritual eyes are uncommonly 
vivacious and perspicacious ; and therefore there were abundance of full- 
length portraits of the ghost, abundantly sworn and testified to, which, as 
is often the case with portraits, agreed with each other in no particular 
except the common family peculiarity of the ghost tribe — the wearing of a 
white sheet. The poor souls were not versed in ancient history, and did 
not know that Shakespeare had authenticated this costume, by telhng 

the sheeted dead 

Did squeak and gibber in the streets of Rome. 

And therefore their all hitting upon this is a striking fact in pneumatology, 
which we recommend to the attention of spiritual media generally. 


Be it as it may, we have private reasons for knowing that a tall figure in 
a white sheet did walk, at the most approved ghostly hours, around the 
Legree premises — pass out the doors, glide about the house^iisappear at 
intervals, and, reappearing, pass up the silent stairway, into that fatal 
garret ; and that, in the morning, the entry doors were all found shut and 
locked as firmly as ever. 

Legree could not help overhearing this whispering ; and it was all the 
more exciting to him from the pains that were taken to conceal it from 
him. He drank more brandy than usual ; held up his head briskly, and 
swore louder than ever in the day-time ; but he had bad dreams, and the 
visions of his head on his bed were anything but agreeable. The night 
after Tom's body had been carried away, he rode to the next town for a 
carouse, and had a high one. Got home late and tired; locked his door, 
took out the key, and went to bed. 

After all, let a man take what pains he may to hush it down, a human 
soul is an awful, ghostly, unquiet possession for a bad man to have. Who 
knows the metes and bounds of it ? Who knows all its awful perhapses — 
those shudderings and tremblings, which it can no more live down than it 
can outlive its own eternity ! What a fool is he who locks his door to keep 
out spirits, who has in his own bosom a spirit he dares not meet alone — 
whose voice, smothered far down, and piled over with mountains of 
earthliness, is yet like the forewarning trumpet of doom ! 

But Legree locked his door and set a chair against it ; he set a night- 
lamp at the head of his bed ; and he put his pistols there. He examined 
the catchings and fastenings of the windows, and then swore he "didn't 
care for the devil and all his angels," and went to sleep. 

Well, he slept, for he was tired — slept soundly. But, finally, there came 
over his sleep a shadow, a horror, an apprehension of something dreadful 
hanging over him. It was his mother's shroud, he thought ; but Cassy had 
it, holding it up, and shov/ing it to him. He heard a confused noise of 
screams and groanings ; and, with it all, he knew he was asleep, and he 
struggled to wake himself. He was half awake. He was sure something 
was coming into his room. He knew the door was opening, but he could 
not stir hand or foot. At last he turned, with a start; the door was 
opened, and he saw a hand putting out his light. 

It was a cloudy, misty moonlight, and there he saw it ! — something 
white, gliding in ! He heard the still rustle of its ghostly garments. It 
stood still by his bed : a cold hand touched his ; a voice said, three times, 
in a low, fearful whisper, " Come ! come ! come ! " And, while he lay 
sweating with terror, he knew not when or how, the thing was gone. He 
sprang out of bed, and pulled at the door. It was shut and locked, and 
the man fell down in a swoon. 

After this, Legree became a harder drinker than ever before. He no 
longer drank cautiously, prudently, but imprudently and recklessly. 

There were reports around the country, soon after, that he was sick and 
dying. Excess had brought on that frightful disease that seems to throw 
the lurid shadows of a coming retribution back into the present life. 
None could bear the horrors of that sick room when he raved and 
screamed, and spoke of sights which almost stopped the blood of those 
who heard him ; and, at his dying bed, stood a stern, white, inexorable 
figure, saying, " Come ! come ! come ! " 

By a singular coincidence, on the very night that this vision appeared to 
Legree, the house-door was found open in the morning, and some of the 




negroes had seen two white figures gliding down the avenue towards the 
high road. 

It was near sun-rise when Cassy and Emmeline paused, for a moment, in 
a little knot of trees near the town. 

Cassy was dressed after the manner of the Creole Spanish ladies — wholly 
in black. A small black bonnet on her head, covered by a veil thick with 
embroidery, concealed her face. It had been agreed that, in their escape, 
she was to personate the character of a Creole lady, and Emmeline that of 
her servant. 

Brought up, from early life, in connection with the highest society, the 
language, movements, and air of Cassy were all in agreement with this 
idea; and she had still enough remaining with her of a once splendid 
wardrobe, and sets of jewels, to enable her to personate the thing to 

She stopped in the outskirts of the town, where she had noticed trunks 
for sale, and purchased a handsome one. This she requested the man to 
send along with her. And, accordingly, thus escorted by a boy wheeling 
her trunk, and Emmeline behind her, carrying her carpet-bag, and sundry 
bundles, she made her appearance at the small tavern, like a lady of con- 

The first person that struck her, after her arrival, was George Shelby, 
who was staying there, awaiting the next boat. 

Cassy had remarked the young man from her loop-hole in the garret, 
and seen him bear away the body of Tom, and observed, with secret ex- 
ultation, his rencontre with Legree. Subsequently, she had gathered, from 
the conversations she had overheard among the negroes, as she glided 
about in her ghostly disguise after nightfall, who he was, and in what 
relation he stood to Tom. She therefore felt an immediate accession of 
confidence when she found that he was, like herself, awaiting the next 

Cassy's air and manner, address, and evident command of money, pre- 
vented any rising disposition to suspicion in the hotel. People never 
inquire too closely into those who are fair on the main point, of paying 
well — a thing which Cassy had foreseen when she provided herself with 

In the edge of the evening, a boat was heard coming along, and George 
Shelby handed Cassy aboard, with the politeness which comes naturally to 
every Kentuckian, and exerted himself to provide her with a good state- 

Cassy kept her room and bed, on pretext of illness, during the whole 
time they were on Red River, and was waited on with obsequious devo- 
tion by her attendant. 

When they arrived at the Mississippi River, George, having learned that 
the course of the strange lady was upward, like his own, proposed to take 
a state-room for her on the same boat with himself — -good-naturedly com- 
passionating her feeble health, and desirous to do what he could to assist 

Behold, therefore, the whole party safely transferred to the good 
steamer, Cincinnati^ and sweeping up the river under a powerful head of 

Cassy's health was much better. She sat upon the guards, came to the 
table, and was remarked upon in the boat as a lady that must have been 
very handsome. 


From the moment that George got the first gUmpse of her face, he was 
troubled with one of those fleeting and indefinite hkenesses which almost 
everybody can remember, and has been, at times, perplexed with. He 
could not keep himself from looking at her, and watching her per- 
petually. At table, or sitting at her state-room door, still she would 
encounter the young man's eyes fixed on her, and politely withdrawn, 
when she showed, by her countenance, that she was sensible of the obser- 

Cassy became uneasy. She began to think that he suspected some- 
thing ; and finally resolved to throw herself entirely on his generosity, and 
entrusted him with her whole history. 

George was heartily disposed to sympathise with any one who had 
escaped from Legree's plantation — a place that he could not remember 
or speak of with patience ; and, with the courageous disregard of con- 
sequences which is characteristic of his age and State, he assured her that 
he would do all in his power to protect and bring them through. 

The next state-room to Cassy's was occupied by a French lady, named 
De Thoux, who was accompanied by a fine little daughter, a child of some 
twelve summers. 

This lady, having gathered from George's conversation that he was from 
Kentucky, seemed evidently disposed to cultivate his acquaintance; in 
which design she was seconded by the graces of her little girl, who was 
about as pretty a plaything as ever diverted the weariness of a fortnight's 
trip on a steamboat. 

George's chair was often, placed at4ier state-room door; and Cassy, as 
she sat upon the guards, could hear their conversation. 

Madame de Thoux was very minute in her inquiries as to Kentucky, 
where she said she had resided in a former period of her life. George dis- 
covered, to his surprise, that her former residence must have been in his 
own vicinity ; and her inquiries showed a knowledge of people and things 
in his region that was perfectly surprising to him. 

" Do you know," said Madame de Thoux to him one day, " of any man 
in your neighbourhood of the name of Harris ? " 

" There is an old fellow of that name lives not far from my father's 
place," said George. "We never have had much intercourse with him, 

" He is a large slave-owner, I believe," said Madame de Thoux, with a 
manner which seemed to betray more interest than she was exactly willing 
to show. 

" He is," said George, looking rather surprised at her manner. 

" Did you ever know of his having — perhaps you may have heard of his 
having, a mulatto boy named George ? " 

" Oh, certainly — George Harris — I know him well, he married a servant 
of my mother's, but has escaped now to Canada." 

" He has ? " said Madame de Thoux quickly. " Thank God ! " 

George looked a surprised inquiry, but said nothing, 

Madame de Thoux leaned her head on her hand, and burst into tears. 
" He is my brother ! " she said. 

" Madame ! " said George, with a strong accent of surprise. 

" Yes," said Madame de Thoux, lifting her head proudly, and wiping her 
tears, " Mr. Shelby, George Harris is my brother ! " 

"I am perfectly astonished," said George, pushing back his chair a pace 
or two, and looking at Madame de Thoux. 


" I was sold to the south when he was a boy," said she. " I was bought 
by a good and generous man. He took me with him to the West Indies, 
set me free, and married me. It is but lately that he died, and I was 
coming up to Kentucky to see if I could find and redeem my brother." 

" I have heard him speak of a sister Emily, that was sold south," said 

" Yes, indeed ! I am the one," said Madame de Thoux. " Tell me 
what sort of a " 

*' A very fine young man," said George, " notwithstanding the curse of 
slavery that lay on him. He sustained a first-rate character, both for 
intelligence and principle. I know, you see," he said, "because he 
married in our family." 

" What sort of a girl ? " said Madame de Thoux eagerly. 

" A treasure ! " said George. " A beautiful, intelligent, amiable girl. 
Very pious. My mother had brought her up, and trained her as care- 
fully almost as a daughter. She could read and write, embroider and sew, 
beautifully ; and was a beautiful singer." 

" Was she born in your house ? " said Madame de Thoux. 

" No. Father bought her once, in one of his trips to New Orleans, and 
brought her up as a present to mother. She was about eight or nine years 
old, then. Father would never tell mother what he gave for her ; but, the 
other day, in looking over his old papers, we came across the bill of sale. 
He paid an extravagant sum for her, to be sure — I suppose, on account «f 
her extraordinary beauty." 

George sat with his back to Gassy, and did not see the absorbed ex- 
pression of her countenance as he was giving these details. 

At this point of the story she touched his arm, and, with a face perfectly 
white with interest, said, "Do you know the names of the people he bought 
her of?" 

"A man of the name of Simmons, I think, was the principal in the 
transaction — at least, I think that was the name on the bill of sale." 

" Oh, my God ! " said Gassy, and fell insensible on the floor of the 

George was wide awake now, and so was Madame de Thoux. Though 
neither of them could conjecture what was the cause of Cassy's fainting, 
still they made all the tumult which is proper in such cases — George 
upsetting a wash-pitcher, and breaking two tumblers, in the warmth of his 
humanity; and various ladies in the cabin, healing that somebody had 
fainted, crowded the state-room door, and kept out all the air they possibly 
could, so that, on the whole, everything was done that could be expected. 

Poor Gassy, when she recovered, turned her face to the wall, and wept 
and sobbed like a child. Perhaps, mother, you can tell what she was 
thinking of ! Perhaps you cannot ; but she felt as sure, in that hour, that 
God had had mercy on her, and that she should see her daughter — as she 
did, months afterwards — when — but we anticipate. 




The rest of our story is soon told. George Shelby, interested, as any 
other young man might be, by the romance of the incident, no less than 
by feelings of humanity, was at the pains to send to Cassy the bill of sale 
of Eliza, whose date and name all corresponded with her own knowledge 
of facts, and left no doubt upon her mind as to the identity of her child- 
It remained now only for her to trace out the path of the fugitives. 

Madame de Thoux and she, thus drawn together by the singular 
coincidence of their fortunes, proceeded immediately to Canada, and 
began a tour of enquiry among the stations, where the numerous fugitives 
from slavery are located. At Amherstberg they found the missionary 
with whom George and Eliza had taken shelter on their first arrival in 
Canada, and through him were enabled to trace the family to Montreal. 

George and Eliza had now been five years free. George had found 
constant occupation in the shop of a worthy machinist, where he had 
been earning a competent support for his family, which, in the mean time, 
had been increased by the addition of another daughter. 

Little Harry, a fine bright boy, had been put to a good school, and was 
making rapid proficiency in knowledge. 

The worthy pastor of the station in Amherstberg, where George had 
first landed, was so much interested in the statements of Madame de 
Thoux and Cassy, that he yielded to the solicitations of the former to 
accompany them to Montreal in their search — she bearing all the expenses 
of the expedition. 

The scene now changes to a small, neat tenement, in the outskirts of 
Montreal; the time, evening. A cheerful fire blazes on the hearth; a 
tea-table, covered with a snowy cloth, stands prepared for the evening 
meal. In one corner of the room was a table covered with a green cloth, 
where was an open writing-desk, pens, paper, and over it a shelf of 
well-selected books. 

This was George's study. The same zeal for self-improvement which 
led him to steal the much coveted arts of reading and writing, amid all 
the toils and discouragements of his early life, still led him to devote 
all his leisure-time to self-cultivation. 

At this present time he is seated at the table, making notes from a 
volume of the family library he has been reading. 

" Come, George," says Eliza, " you 've been gone all day. Do put 
down that book, and let 's talk, while I 'm getting tea — do." 

And little Eliza seconds the effort by toddling up to her father, and 
trying to pull the book out of his hand, and install herself on his knee as a 

" Oh, you little witch!" says George, yielding, as, in such circumstances, 
man always must. 

" That 's right," said Eliza, as she begins to cut a loaf of bread. A 
little older she looks ; her form a little fuller ; her hair more matronly than 
of yore ; but evidently contented and happy as woman need be. 

"Harry, my boy, how did you come on in that sum to-day?" says 
George, as he laid his hand on his son's head. 


Harry has lost his long curls; but he can never lose those eyes and 
eyelashes, and that fine, bold brow, that flushes with triumph as he 
answers, " I did it, every bit of it, myself, father ; and nobody helped me." 

"That's right," says his father; "depend on yourself, my son. You 
have a better chance than ever your poor father had." 

At this moment there is a rap at the door ; and Eliza goes and opens it. 
The delighted "Why — this you?" calls up her husband; and the good 
pastor of Amherstberg is welcomed. There are two women with him, 
and Eliza asks them to sit down. 

Now, if the truth must be told, the honest pastor had arranged a little 
programme, according to which this affair was to develop itself; and on 
the way up, all had very cautiously and prudently exhorted each other not 
to let things out, except according to previous arrangement. 

What was the good man's consternation, therefore, just as he had 
motioned to the ladies to be seated, and was taking out his pocket- 
handkerchief to wipe his mouth, so as to proceed to his introductory 
speech in good order, when Madame de Thoux upset the whole plan by 
throwing her arms around George's neck, and letting all out at once 
by saying, " O George ! don't you know me ? I 'm your sister Emily ! " 

Gassy had seated herself more composedly, and would have carried on 
her part very well, had not little Eliza suddenly appeared before her 
in exact shape and form, every outline and curl, just as her daughter 
was when she saw her last. The little thing peered up in her face ; and 
Gassy caught her up in her arms, and pressed her to her bosom, saying 
what at the moment she really believed, " Darling, I 'm your mother ! " 

In fact, it was a troublesome matter to do up exactly in proper order ; 
but the good pastor, at last, succeeded in getting everybody quiet, and 
delivering the speech with which he had intended to open the exercises ; 
and in which, at last, he succeeded so well that his whole audience were 
sobbing about him in a manner that ought to satisfy any orator, ancient or 

They knelt together, and the good man prayed — for there are some 
feelings so agitated and tumultuous that they can find rest only by being 
poured into the bosom of Almighty love — and then, rising up, the new- 
found family embraced each other, with a holy trust in Him who, from such 
perils and dangers, and by such unknown ways, had brought them 

The note-book of a missionary among the Ganadian fugitives contains 
truth stranger than fiction. How can it be otherwise when a system 
prevails which whirls families and scatters their members, as the wind 
whirls and scatters the leaves of autumn? These shores of refuge, like 
the eternal shore, often unite again, in glad communion, hearts that for long 
years have mourned each other as lost. And affecting beyond expression 
is the earnestness with which every new arrival among them is met, if, 
perchance, it may bring tidings of mother, sister, wife, or child, still lost to 
view in the shadows of slavery. 

Deeds of heroism are wrought here more than those of romance, when, 
defying torture, and braving death itself, the fugitive voluntarily threads 
his way back to the terrors and perils of that dark land, that he may 
bring out his sister, or mother, or wife. 

One young man, of whom a missionary has told us, twice re-captured, 
and suffering shameful stripes for his heroism, had escaped again ; and, in 
a letter which we heard read, tells his friends that he is going back a third 


time, that he may, at last, bring away his sister. My good sir, is this man 
a hero or a criminal ? Would not you do as much for your sister ? And 
can you blame him ? 

But to return to our friends, whom we left wiping their eyes, and 
recovering themselves from too great and sudden a joy. They are now 
seated around the social board, and are getting decidedly companionable ; 
only that Cassy, who keeps little Eliza on her lap, occasionally squeezes 
the little thing in a manner that rather astonishes her, and obstinately 
refuses to have her mouth stuffed with cake to the extent the little 
one desires — alleging what the child rather wonders at, that she has 
got something better than cake, and doesn't want it. 

And, indeed, in two or three days, such a change has passed over 
Cassy that our readers would scarcely know her. The despairing, 
haggard expression of her face had given way to one of gentle trust. She 
seemed to sink at once into the bosom of the family, and take the little 
ones into her heart, as something for which it long had waited. Indeed, 
her love seemed to flow more naturally to the little Eliza than to her own 
daughter; for she was the exact image and body of the child whom 
she had lost. The little one was a flowery bond between mother and 
daughter, through whom grew up acquaintanceship and affection. Eliza's 
steady, consistent piety, regulated by the constant reading of the sacred 
word, made her a proper guide for the shattered and wearied mind of her 
mother. Cassy yielded at once, and with her whole soul, to every good 
influence, and became a devout and tender Christian. 

After a day or two, Madame de Thoux told her brother more particularly j| 
of her affairs. The death of her husband had left her an ample fortunei 
which she generously offered to share with the family. When she askedl 
George what way she could best apply it for him, he answered, " Give me 
an education, Emily; that has always been my heart's desire. Then Ij 
can do all the rest." 

On mature deliberation, it was decided that the whole family should